by the increasingly difficult and much-feared old Vangerdahast . . . but who'd instead become a firm friend, remaining a loved and trusted diplomat and a cheerful tower of strength and moral guide for the War Wizards and the nobility of the realm alike.
Not for the first time, she wondered what Laspeera's true thoughts were, behind her unfailing graceful politeness. Many a courtier could act and speak one way and believe and covertly advance quite another, and far too many kings had fallen by trusting the wrong smiling face for too long.
Yet she could not stop crying, and Speera's arms were warm around her, rocking her as affectionately as an older sister might.
'One of the high points of any life, yes,' Laspeera murmured, 'and so of course devastating when it's over . . . but Gala, life goes on, and there'll be others-if you work to make them happen.'
That jerked Caladnei upright, to stare at the older War Wizard. 'Speera?' she blurted. 'You called me 'Gala'!'
Laspeera winked at her. 'Mystra take me,' she murmured, 'so I did. How presumptuous and graceless of me. My tongue must have run away with me.'
She kept hold of Caladnei and so was ready to catch her when the Mage Royal collapsed into sudden, snorting laughter.
Six
There's one sure way to know ye've reached a city where merchants rule: ye'll see a knife clutched ready in every hand. If the merchants have gone so far as to practice the misrule of kings, some of those hands will no longer be attached to bodies.
One of the highest peaks of the Storm Horns, that great shield-wall of mountains that defend Cormyr's western flank, is Tharbost. 'The Lord of Storms,' some call it, and it glares eternally out over Tunland, so high and wind-shrouded that few creatures lacking wings know that the lofty tip of its spire was broken off in dragon-battle long ago, leaving behind a small, flat high table. A rampart of teethlike rocks at the western lip of this lofty perch affords a little shelter against the full raking fury of the winds, so when breezes slacken, humans who somehow reach the summit of Tharbost might hope to stand thereon for a short time before the tireless wind-talons pluck and whirl them down again.
Two humans were standing there now: figures that had simply appeared there out of what minstrels were wont to call 'empty nowhere' moments before, without any fuss of flowering magic or deadly struggles of climbing.
The wind moaned in a deadly rising, whipping the tattered black robe one of them wore up into a most immodest flapping, but she stood unconcernedly-showing no signs of struggling for balance or feeling the icy wind- chill-side by side with a figure who spat out the end of his beard for the third time and muttered a small, sharply worded magic to keep it down.
The Simbul grinned at him. 'Strange, how you worded your cantrip to tame your beard but not my dress.'
'Presume to alter the fashion statement of a woman who's also a queen? I'm widely considered a meddling fool, Lady Fire, but I'm not that much of a meddling fool.'
Though the sorceress no more than smiled fondly, merry laughter rolled around the summit, shaking Tharbost and setting some of its rocks to singing out echoes.
THIS IS WHAT I MISS MOST ABOUT LAYING ASIDE MORTALITY, Mystra told them a trifle sadly, when she'd mastered her mirth. NO ONE TEASES ME.
Elminster lifted his head, grin widening-and his beard promptly flew up into his face to forestall whatever he'd been going to say.
NO, OLD MAGE, THAT WAS NOT A REQUEST FOR YOU TO START DOING SO. HEAR AND BELIEVE. As a coda to that emphatic statement, Elminster's beard slapped down to its tamed position once more.
The Simbul promptly burst into laughter at his revealed expression, so it was left to the long-suffering onetime Prince of Athalantar to observe, 'Ye cannot have snatched us here, Divine One, just to hear us banter. Ye've more to impart, eh?'
OF COURSE. WHENEVER POSSIBLE-ALASSRA SILVERHAND, HEED ME TRUE!-YOU ARE TO SUBVERT RED WIZARDS RATHER THAN SLAUGHTER THEM.
The Simbul lifted an eyebrow. ''Subvert'?'
LAY DEEP-MIND SUGGESTION SPELLS TO GENTLY NUDGE THE THAYANS INTO ACTING AS I DESIRE THEM TO. SOME WILL YET HAVE TO BE SLAIN, BUT TOO MANY HAVE A CAPACITY TO CRAFT NEW MAGICS AND EXPAND MORTAL USE OF THE WEAVE, TO LOSE THEM ALL.
'I hear and obey,' the Simbul said formally, bowing her head. 'In truth, my … bloodlust when it comes to Red Wizards increasingly frightens me. I'll stay my hand and do as you command. Guide me as to the actions you want them steered into.'
'I hear and obey,' Elminster echoed, 'and will do the same. Command and guide us.'
I SHALL. THANK YOU.
The rising wind whistled around them, heard but unfelt. It whipped away their breath in long, fleeting plumes as the Chosen waited, finding themselves after some dozen plumes had raced away east still standing on the desolate mountaintop, beneath a sky of uncaring stars.
'There's more, Divine One,' Elminster observed calmly, not leaving it as a question.
The rocks around them seemed to sigh. YES.
YES, THERE IS. The wind moaned higher. MOMENTS LIKE THAT MOOT IN THE CELLARS MAKE ME FEEL VERY . . . MORTAL AGAIN. UNCERTAIN. UNSETTLED.
The wind slackened, and after a moment Mystra spoke again. HOW WELL … IN YOUR HONEST, BLUNT JUDGMENT, BOTH OF YOU, SPEAKING FREELY WITHOUT FEAR OF … REPRISAL . . . HOW AM I DOING?
Elminster and the Simbul turned their heads and traded sober glances, there in the whistling wind, and it was Elminster who spoke, his voice gentle.
'In this we are both agreed, Most Mighty,' he told the empty, echoing air around him. 'Considering how we two, who have wielded some measure of the power ye hold for hundreds of years longer than ye have existed, so often mess up: fine. Just fine.'
* * * * *
A bobbing barge saved her. She leaped, landed hard, and skidded across its damp roof just slowly enough to kick up … and out . . . gaining the height she needed to cross a widening stretch of inky water and crash heels-first onto the already-battered rail of a barge littered with heaps of rusty chain, garbage, crab sink-cages, and a tangle of rotting nets-startling into cursing wakefulness the three filthy beggars sleeping thereon-and vault over its massive dragger-arm, onto the next island.
Where the Silken Shadow ducked into an alley and raced along, crouching low and coming to a cautious, creeping halt at its far end, which-as she'd correctly guessed-was also the other side of the isle. The bridge onward, to a much larger island that would give her a choice of routes toward the true shore, was only a few running paces away, but it would be guarded-and one or perhaps two warriors she could burst past, but more, or sentinels who had handbows or spells, would be quite another matter.
She crouched tensely, knowing she hadn't much time before the pursuit caught up with her. Mantle of Mystra,
