Elminster in Hell

sumptuously houses your mistress on Brightstar Street-'

'Ahem,' remarked Sir Sabrast Windriver, hastily.

'— the cottage of your second mistress on Undelmring Street-'

'Ahem, hem, hem,' Sir Sabrast Windriver added, more vigorously. 'Now, just a-'

“-your country estate at Gray Oaks, your yacht moored at Moonever, your hunting lodge at Mouth o' Gargoyles-and oh, yes, the cottage of your third mistress, in Waymoot. The port rolls in Suzail record sixteen sailings of vessels owned by you so far this season, and twenty returns; at least two of the ships that were unloaded at the docks to your enrichment shared a name and charter but were quite dissimilar in size and age. Fellow agents of the Crown report that the ledger of landings in Marsember that records the particulars of your fleet is mysteriously missing. They have thus far failed personally to examine any of the offloaded cargoes, which would, of course, add taxation to the amount I've just mentioned-to say nothing of any personal transactions you may have accomplished that may also be of interest to us. I speak now merely of the face value of annual land taxes on the properties I've just named, though one of my colleagues reports that you own at least two score houses in this city and some hundred or so upland farms. How is it-with so much land that you could readily sell enough to meet almost any royal demand for monies-that you seem to habitually forget to render unto Azoun what is, undeniably, Azoun's?'

Andemel and Raurild, whose eyebrows had risen at this astonishing catalogue of wealth, looked with interest at their colleague, wondering what Sir Sabrast would say or do now. Without thinking, in an instinctive move to distance themselves from financial embarrassment and Crown suspicion, they'd stepped a pace or two away from him, so that the master of Windriver House now stood alone in a little cleared spot of gaudy Thayan carpet.

Taking one slow stride to where he could lean against one of the recently relocated pillars, Sir Sabrast Windriver managed a smile.

'Actually, Murauvyn,' he replied calmly, 'you appear unaware of my fourth, fifth, and sixth mistresses, my Olde Lace and Glitterswash chain of souvenir shops throughout Sembia, and the current needs and dispositions of my large family. My eldest son, Falorian, is hard at work founding his own shipping line out of Selgaunt, my middle son Arastor is fast becoming the largest builder in stone in Westgate, and my youngest, Bralzaer, has founded a mercenary company in Impiltur, Bralzaer's Bold Basilisks. I have six daughters, all of whom are in Sembia going through three or four new gowns each a day, trying to snare wealthy Sembian husbands. My sickly wife-of whom I'm sure you've heard-is busily trying every medicine that can be suggested by man or halfling, searching for a cure for… living, it seems. Do you have any idea how many golden lions they can all spend in a day?'

He smiled archly and added, 'If I don't give any of them so much as one worn copper coin, why should I give anything to you?'

Into the tense silence that followed, Raurild couldn't help but snort as he tried to smother his mirth. The tax collector gave him a cold look before bending an even more icy gaze upon the unrepentant knight.

'Sir Sabrast,' Precept Immult Murauvyn said in cold, precise tones, 'your treatment of your family is not the concern of the Crown. Your failure to render tax monies, however, is. In fact, it has become a concern so grave that the Royal Magician of Cormyr has gone so far as to grant me permission to seize whatever of your properties I choose, to meet the outstanding debt-after you have rendered menial labor on the royal roads of the kingdom for a month, as any penniless debtor must. You act the part of the destitute man all too well and drive us to treat you as one.'

Sir Sabrast stepped away from the pillar, casually moving one hand to cover the rings he wore on the other, and asked softly, 'And if I refuse to submit to your demands upon my properties and person?'

The other pillar in the alcove suddenly twisted and blurred. Glowing maces swept up, and Purple Dragoas reached for their weapons on all sides. They paused as the pillar resolved itself into the unmistakable figure of Vangerdahast, the Royal Magician of Cormyr.

'Sabrast Windriver,' the old and pudgy mage said calmly, 'be aware that daring to cast any spell or commit any acts of violence at this time will earn you a year or so of additional service as a toad… in the palace dung- Middens.'

Even as Vangerdahast spoke, the pillar Sabrast had been leaning against became a whirling chaos. An instant later it snapped into the shape of a beautiful maid who was almost wearing a gown of leaping flames.

Purple Dragons gasped and swallowed as those flames died away, shrinking to nothing, to reveal a body that was covered with a shapely tattoo of the Royal Arms of Cormyr. The painted maid blew Andemel a kiss, flickered, and was suddenly a bearded, hawk-nosed old man in plain gray robes.

'Elminster!' several armsmen gasped in startled recognition.

'Just another pillar of the palace,' the Mage of Shadowdale told them dryly. 'Well met, Vangy, loyal armsmen, and good merchants of Cormyr. Is this a private party?'

Vangerdahast glared at him with a look as sharp as a drawn sword. 'Elminster,' he asked in a dangerously soft voice, 'what are you doing here?'

'Paying Sabrast's tax debt-with handsome interest, ye'll note-and advising ye, in a friendly manner, to reconsider thy rightful demand for his performance of hard labor.'

Precept Murauvyn opened his mouth to say something, licked his lips, and looked at Vangerdaliast.

The Court Wizard asked softly, 'And just why would you do this?'

The bust of Azoun in the corner was suddenly surrounded by a vivid amber radiance that drew every eye. It J winked, twisted into the shape of a harp for a fleeting J instant, and then slumped into a gleaming, slithering heap.i of gold coins and glass-topped coffers full of gems.

'Rogue he may be, but I-as well as many unwitting folk of Cormyr-are indebted to this knight of thine for j certain supportive actions he hath rendered.'

A clearly furious Vangerdahast snapped, 'And if I refuse to accept your payment? What then?'

'Well, then,' Elminster replied mildly, 'I'll be forced to end my protection over certain treasures here in the palace — … and, I'm afraid, they'll revert to their true forms.'

'Elminster,' Vangerdahast snarled, 'are you threatening me?'

The Mage of Shadowdale looked shocked. 'By the gentle mercies of Holy Mystra, no,' he purred. 'Just volunteering some more friendly advice-about consequences, this time. Some of those treasures, ye see, will no doubt I angry when they awaken.'

'Angry? Awaken? Elminster, you've placed monsters in the midst of our palace?'

'Nay-am I to blame, if various kings of Cormyr have, an eye for valuables others fail to nail firmly down, and] bring them home?'

'Elminster Aumar,' Vangerdahast said tightly, 'enough bandinage. Just what sort of monsters are in our halls under your control?'

The Mage of Shadowdale resumed the shape of the curvaceous maiden in the gown of leaping flames and _oave the nearest Purple Dragon a welcoming, pouting wink. 'Ah… dragons,' he told the ceiling innocently.

“Dragons?'

“Only three-or was it four? And only a small sort of dragon,' El replied.

In the shocked silence that followed, the lady in the flaming gown took Sabrast's arm and added sweetly, 'I'll just go and tell the chancellor ye accept Sir Sabrast's belated but generous payment, shall I?'

Vangerdahast swallowed, closed his eyes, and croaked, 'Wine… I need wine. Lots of it.'

As she glided through the curtain, the lady in flames snapped slender fingers. Full wineskins appeared out of nothingness and rained down on the Royal Magician.

It was hardly the fault of the Mage of Shadowdale that the third wineskin burst when Master Raurild tried to catch it-and that the fourth hit the momentarily blinded merchant on the head and also broke, drenching Vangerdaliast and Precept Murauvyn, and spraying everyone else in the alcove with wine.

Ruby, of course.

By all the fires of hell, is there no end to these trivialities? Mace, now does one live year upon year and do such… Such waste?

[furious volley of mind bolts]