'They're hunting us down like hares all over the harbor right now, lord! It's ruin for us, unless you turn it to glorious victory by hurling some spell or other down into that cellar and collapsing it to crush the lot of them. Why, there're more War Wizards gathered together there-and more of Those Who Harp, too, gods take them!-than I've ever seen all in one place since the last battle against the Devil Dragon!'
'There's no need to shout and so draw attention to yourself, good Narvo,' the unseen man who held the other speaking stone replied, almost gently. 'Have you used the mindlink spell to talk with Englar?'
Narvo breathed deeply, as if trying to calm himself by sheer will, and said more quietly, 'No, lord. I cast it, but… it failed. He's either well away from Cormyr, or . . .'
'Dead. Most likely dead,' was the calm reply. 'I ordered him and some others to find and bring back Zlorn, so he was probably down in that cellar not long ago. What of Sanbreean? How fares he?'
'D-dead, lord, in the fighting on the docks. I saw him hurl a spell at a War Wizard and have his face blasted off in return. So I'm the only one of us left. These nobles and merchants are useless! All greed and chortling and nasty threats among themselves-and they turn and run like shrieking rabbits the moment things go wrong!'
'Ah, well,' the voice from the speaking stone in Narvo's hands said faintly-so softly that the Red Wizard bent hastily forward over it to hear, his nose almost touching its cold, glossy-polished surface-'these things happen. As must-most regrettably-one more thing. This.'
The speaking stone exploded with a roar, beheading Narvo in an instant. The Red Wizard's corpse arched upright, clawing the air spasmodically, then staggered back and sideways a few unsteady steps. Only a few, but enough. . . .
The peat-hued, reeking waters of Marsember harbor were home to a sizable collection of small, floating dead things already, but they accepted a larger addition with an almost welcoming splash.
The events of this evening had already afforded them much practice in such swift acceptances.
And in a dark and distant chamber, an orphaned speaking-stone was set gently down on a tabletop whose glossy polish rivaled its own. The man who'd put it there toyed idly with a black gem pendant at his throat and turned away to stroll to the window, hum softly up at the winking stars, and think. It was clearly time to consider his second, and far more subtle, plan.
* * * * *
In the tense, crowded cellar in Marsember, the Mage Royal of Cormyr turned to face the Simbul, keeping her balance by resting her fingertips on Rhauligan's shoulder. Lifting her pain-lined face, she locked eyes with the fabled Scourge of Thay.
Against her wild and towering beauty, Caladnei seemed young and of little account-just one more leather- clad Harper among many more menacing veterans. Long-limbed and slender, her dark brown skin almost the hue of the leathers she wore, she regarded the Witch-Queen of Aglarond with large, dark eyes-deep brown, rather than the ruby-red they became when she was angry-and said calmly, 'I echo Rhauligan's welcome, but I must respectfully remind both of you, Elminster and Queen Alassra, that in this place, in the absence of Crown Princess and Regent Alusair and Dowager Queen Filfaeril, I am the royal law and voice of Cormyr.'
'No dispute there, lass,' Elminster murmured, spreading his hands-a movement that made several Harpers nervously raise handbows. Caladnei saw something of this out of the corner of one eye and whirled to give the tense line of Cormyreans a quelling 'down arms' gesture.
Turning back to the two Chosen once more, she drew herself up and said, 'And in that wise, in the interests of the realm, I demand the immediate surrender of Narnra Shalace into my keeping-and the as-swift departure of you both from our land, honored Chosen, until times are more settled in Cormyr.'
Gods watching over us, woman, but you have backbone and balls both, Rhauligan thought savagely, eyeing the two mighty Chosen in what might be his last moments of life. Your reckless idiocy leaves me despairing but proud of you.
Why, THANK you, most loyal dealer in turret tops and spires, Caladnei's thought echoed in his mind, as sharp as if she was shouting in his ear. Permit me to BE Mage Royal and not merely carry the title around like a costume to be sneered at, hmm? I've two good reasons for this particular reckless idiocy: first, to make the point that must be made, that I happen to hold authority here and no Chosen should think their divine favor gives them sway to do as they please; and because what I've heard from and about this Narnra convinces me that she's much more than she appears-and at the very least could mind-yield a LOT of useful information about current 'dark dealings' in Water-deep. I visit your mind, Rhauligan, not to justify myself, but to give you this order: whatever happens, you are to capture this Narnra and bring her back to the most senior surviving Wizards of War, for questioning.
Lady I am honored to serve, Rhauligan thought back quickly, I hear and obey.
'The woman you demand,' Elminster observed gently, 'is not ours to surrender. I have freed her from my own detention and will defend that freedom, according to her wishes. Moreover, if ye examine no less than six royal decrees and two binding treaties that I know of, preserved in the royal records of Cormyr, I-though not the ruler of Aglarond, I'll grant-have the freedom of the realm and a court rank, by the way, that outstrips thine own.'
Caladnei regarded him expressionlessly, her eyes going darker and more red, then said calmly, 'This may be so, yet my desires stand.' She looked up at the infamous slayer of hundreds of Thayan wizards, still standing on air above her. 'It remains my desire not to offend either of you, but I must ask: Queen of Aglarond, what is your response to these my stated desires?'
'You would defy us, child?' the Simbul asked, her voice incredulous but amused.
Elminster looked up at her, and she turned her head to regard him. They looked at each other in silence, thoughts clearly flashing between them.
'Great persons,' Caladnei shapped, clear anger in her voice for the first time, 'I demand that you hold no private converse but share for us all what you have to say to each other!'
'Demanding, isn't she?' Elminster remarked, not looking at the Mage Royal. 'She extended us no such courtesy when giving Rhauligan his order.'
'She's young, yet,' the Simbul replied tolerantly. They turned their heads in unison to favor Caladnei with identical sweet smiles and-did as she'd demanded.
YOU DO WELL, TO ASK ME DIRECTLY, AND, YES, SHARING OUR CONVERSE WILL BE FOR THE BEST.
A voice that was gentle and yet thunderous rolled through the cellar, sending Cormyreans staggering back with faces going pale and hands faltering in fear. Not one of them needed to be told who that mind-voice belonged to: blue-white and bright in their minds, tinged with bursting and reforming stars of sheer power, it cried 'Mystra' into every mind.
* * * * *
The chime he'd been expecting sang its eerie little song just outside the door, and Bezrar scrambled up from his littered desk. He was sweating-but then, Aumun Tholant Bezrar was always sweating. Part of it was because he was, let's grant it before the gods, fat … and the other reason was because someone whose daily business as an importer and wholesaler of sundry goods involved far more than the usual cartload of smuggling and of stolen goods well, such a one has a very good reason to sweat.
He fumbled aside the bar, the three chains, the two bolts-and flung the door wide. 'B'gads, you're here!'
'Stand aside and let me in,' Surth's cold voice snapped out of the darkness, 'instead of announcing my arrival to the entire neighborhood, you incredible dolt.'
Bezrar blinked, chuckled, and hastily shuffled back to make way for his partner. Surth was right, of course. Surth was always right. 'Did y'bring the hoods?'
'No, of course I strolled across all Marsember to pay for a special order and forgot to bring them back with me!' Malakar's voice was as thin, sour, and sarcastic as always. 'You'll have to cut your own eyeholes-you do have some shears in this sty, don't you?'
Bezrar chuckled rather than stiffening as he would have done in the unlikely event of any other man in Marsember addressing him in this way. Surth was Surth: Malakar Surth, every cold, sinister, and icily superior inch of him. He was tall and lean where Bezrar was not and sour and sarcastic where Bezrar was jovial and cheerfully evil.
