'No, Thauvas, that's not the way,' Nameless Cormaeril said pleasantly, the tip of his sword already-but only just-through the skin that had until now covered the place where the Red Wizard's throat joined the back of his jaw. 'Why must you Thay-ans always make things so complicated? Business, all business, remember? Let me put it again, simply: I ask a few questions, and you give me a few honest answers-something you're unaccustomed to, I know, but it doesn't hurt much once you get into the habit. A little truth spills, I let you go free, and you'll have plenty of time thereafter to plot my doom . . . simple, no?'
'Idiot noble,' the Red Wizard hissed, his sweating face as pale as a bleached skull. 'Do you know what risk you place upon fair Cormyr by this overbold action? Or how terribly you doom yourself?'
The tall, scarred man at the other end of the grand rapier smiled. 'Yes,' he told Thauvas sweetly.
Behind his back, the Red Wizard finally completed the intricate gesture he'd been tracing. 'Sssardamar!' he said triumphantly- and twisted away from the sharp swordpoint, shouting, 'Die, fool! To dare to threaten a mage of Thay so! Down-country dog!'
Magic flared up around the man who'd called himself Khorna-dar of Westgate with a roar, hungry flames that thrust out at the raven-haired noble.
Who did not scream and shrivel and die but instead lost sword and dark hair and clean-shaven chin to stand smiling through the flames as a hawk-nosed, white-bearded man with busy brows, stained old robes-and even brighter fire in his hands.
'Ah, but it seems fools dare just about anything, these days, doesn't it?' he asked merrily. 'Do ye know me now, Thauvas Zlorn? Do they still, in Thay-amidst all their swaggering and gleeful counting of as-yet-unhatched chickens, as they scheme to rule all Toril a dozen times over-mention the name 'Elminster' from time to time? Just to warn young wizards of the natural perils of this world?'
Blood trickled down Zlorn's throat as magic that sliced through his own as if it were mere false conjurer's fancy-feathers lifted him into the air and held him dangling there. He swallowed, managed the nigh impossible feat of growing even more pale, and fainted.
'Mystra mine,' Elminster murmured disgustedly, 'but they let just about anything swagger out of Thay these days, don't they?'
* * * * *
It was dark at the bottom of the stairs. The only lights were lanterns and torches moving to and fro with grim bands of searchers-humans all, men and women who bore either blades, handbows, and silver harp pins, or wands and the vacant expressions of folk listening to conversations only they could hear, raging in their heads.
Narnra paused, not sure at first which way to go. She knew roughly what direction led to the archway-but without that wizard it was closed, and she'd probably not be able to even find its exact location. Moreover, with all the corpses and spilled blood down here, it would be a horrible thing to have all the searchers depart and leave her groping in utter darkness with the rats. Her best chance lay in somehow joining a band of searchers, being accepted as one of them, reaching the city beyond the broken bridge with them . . . and, she supposed, starting a new life. With nearly nothing in a strange realm where she'd already been marked as a possible traitor by a royal wizard.
'Thank you, merciful gods,' she muttered sardonically-then stiffened as two things happened at once: she remembered the silhouette leaping down the stairs, presumably chasing her but somehow not yet upon her . . . and a Harper suddenly veered away from a passing group and thrust a flaming torch at her. 'Yours,' he said shortly. 'Caladnei's orders.'
Narnra gaped at him then numbly, because she could think of nothing else to do, took the torch. It spat pitch, as they all did, and burned with a brilliance that warmed her cheek-very real and with enough hard-nailed cloth on it to last for hours. Of course, it made her a beacon in the dark cellars . . . but really, with a Mage Royal casting spells on her, wasn't she that already?
The Silken Shadow sighed heavily, spread her hands in exasperation-for so accomplished a Waterdhavian snatch-thief, she wasn't much of a strategist, thank you, Holy Mask-and set off briskly through the cellars, toward where that archway had been. There was the slimmest of chances the old wizard had returned there or would do so, and she had to at least look or forever gnaw at herself for having failed to do so.
Her way took her through almost a dozen cellars, and she saw almost a score of sprawled corpses and many, many more huddled, sullen prisoners. The Rightful Conspiracy, it seemed, was reduced to its mysterious masters and perhaps a few fugitives who'd managed to slip away.
Yes, this was the right place, here . . . and the passage she'd arrived by would be this one, and . . .
There was a sudden cold flare of magic off to the left, through another archway-and Narnra thrust the torch as behind her as she could manage and sidled nearer to see who was casting what down here-quite away from the bands of grim searchers.
Then she stiffened once more, and turned around very slowly. Why had all the searchers veered away from this area as she walked between them . . . and why was there now utter silence behind her?
Her torch showed her nothing but pillars and dark emptiness.
With a sudden snarl she flung the torch as high and as far back along her trail as she could.
The ceiling was high, and the beacon whupp-whupp-whupped end over end quite vigorously, trailing sparks and flame, to bounce with a flare of fire that sank immediately down to a few fitful flames. They were quite enough, however, to show her the shapely leather-clad legs of a lone figure who'd been following her.
That person lowered one hand to point at the torch-and it rose smoothly into the air, fires quickening once more . . . and came floating upright back to Narnra. At the beginning of its journey, its flickering radiance was quite sufficient to show the Waterdhavian thief the half-smiling face of the Mage Royal of Cormyr.
Narnra swallowed and raised her hand in salute-and caught the torch in her other hand, hoping Caladnei wasn't so spiteful with her Art as to make it explode into a thief-incinerating inferno or some like doom.
The torch stayed a torch, and with a sigh of mingled relief and resignation Narnra turned back to those strange flickerings of magic.
A few paces onward she spun around again to see if Caladnei was following her. She could see nothing but shifting darkness, but a very dry voice murmured in her ear, so seemingly close that she couldn't help but jump: A beacon indeed, Narnra Shalace of Waterdeep. Lead on, and together let us see what unfolds.
Narnra turned her face to the unseen ceiling overhead and flung a silent curse at Mask and Tymora, hefted the torch despairingly in her hands . . . and stepped forward again.
The archway was very close now, perhaps a dozen paces ahead to her left. She held the torch as low and as far to the right as she could, walked in that direction, then crept along the wall toward the edge of the arch. Yes, she was carrying a blazing beacon-but perhaps there was light and strife enough in the cellar to keep attention away from one closer torch among many. Perhaps . . .
Going down to her knees and ducking her head as low to the cold stone floor as she could, the Silken Shadow of Waterdeep peered around the edge of the archway.
The cellar held only two men-and their magic. One was the old wizard, her only way out of all this peril. The other was a younger man who hung gabbling fearfully in midair, gripped in a glowing, swirling cloud of enchantment.
So she was caught between the slowly and carefully advancing Caladnei of Cormyr-herding her as deftly as any drover crowding oxen into a caravan-pen-and the old mage who'd so casually defeated her. No doubt the Mage Royal was walking with spells upon spells raised like shields around her . . . and the power of the old wizard was obvious.
The very air glowed and throbbed with it, a pulsing so mighty it almost hurt the ears.
'Ye could have done this the easy way, ye know,' Elminster told the sweat-drenched, trembling man trembling in the air above him. 'I'm a gentle tyrant and require only a few breaths of thy precious time-a hindrance in thy scheduled rush to world domination, I grant ye, yet 'twill give thee a chance to practice gloating and shouting clever jests and phrases about thy puissance to come . . . but no, Thauvas, ye had to struggle. And I thought Thayans understood the proper roles of master and slave. Ye disappoint me.' His voice sharpened. 'So speak. Ye are-?'
'T-Thauvas Zlorn, Red Wizard of Thay.'
