Elminster Enraged

LORD DURNCASKYN IS UNHAPPY

On his best days, the king’s Lord Lothan Durncaskyn of Immerford was a difficult man, gruff and cynical. On his worst days, he was as irritable and sharp-tongued as an aging, surly, and sarcastic retired Purple Dragon veteran whose many ill-healed wounds made him limp and ache during his every waking moment might be expected to be.

This was turning into one of those worst days. Lord Durncaskyn was not happy.

The messenger from Irlingstar had just departed. A constable of the rare, utterly trustworthy sort; Durncaskyn had believed his every word. Wherefore Immerford below his high windows was afire with the unpleasant news that the kitchen staff at the prison castle-Immerfolk, every one of them-had been murdered. Foul murders that cried out for justice. So of course, the gods having the twisted senses of mirth they did, Durncaskyn couldn’t render the aid he was obligated to-Hells, that he ached to.

Just when their presence had been demanded to see into these killings at Irlingstar, his best wizards of war were busy elsewhere. Off north, looking into reports of lawless men raiding caravans along the Moonsea Ride- brigands who must be lairing somewhere in the headwaters of the Immer, which made them Durncaskyn’s problem. He only had the one competent team, six tested mages led by the capable and well-respected Brannon Lucksar. The junior team, three jack-dancing idiots led by that utter fool Vandur, were …

Durncaskyn’s lip curled. He couldn’t call to mind a word bad enough for them. “Bumblers” was too polite and harmless, by far. “Realm-wrecking disasters” groped closer, but-

The unexpected knocking on his office door that erupted then was a sudden thunder of blows. By the sharpness of those sounds, the din was almost certainly being made by metal-shod canes … three or more of them.

Durncaskyn cast his gaze at the ceiling and waved his hands in an exasperated “What next?” flourish, but of course the gods failed to answer. This was shaping into a “worst” day, indeed.

“It’s unlocked,” he called. “Enter!”

The door was flung open, and the owners of those loudly peremptory canes crowded into the room. Seven good burghers of Immerford, men he knew well, to his cost. One glance told Durncaskyn their mood: furious because they were frightened and just bristling for a fight.

The king’s lord of Immerford kept from rolling his eyes only with firm effort. Gods, if they’d only sent their wives, instead …

“Well?” the boldest-Harklur, the vintner, as usual-snapped, “What’re you doing here?”

Durncaskyn quelled an inner sigh and gave the wine merchant a polite smile. As always, the same script. Dutifully, he said the words expected of him.

“This is, as it happens, my office,” he explained gently. “ ’Tis where I’m expected to be, much of my working time. So delegations of honored citizens such as yourselves know where to find me.”

“I mean,” Harklur snarled, “why are you still just sitting here, when honest Immerfolk-defenseless wives and daughters! — have been murdered in their beds by foul young lordlings bent on rape and pillage and … and bloodshed?” As he wound down, the vintner’s faltering words were bolstered by nods and supportive murmurs from the other six pillars of Immerford.

“King and court expect me to remain at my post,” Durncaskyn replied, “particularly in times of crisis. Which this most undoubtedly is, considering that before Constable Delloak brought me the terrible news from Irlingstar, I had three other major troubles to deal with, one of which you gentlesirs are all well aware of.”

“Never mind that!” Harklur snapped, only to be drowned out by two of his fellow burghers, both bursting out at once.

“My daughter’s best friend is dead, and I want to know just what-”

“Who’s keeping the peace up in Irlingstar, anyhail, and what’s to stop these foul murderers from just sweeping down our way, hey? I demand to know-”

My, but they were truly upset. Not one of them had bitten on his bait, and asked the details of those two troubles he’d told them they didn’t know about. Right, then; ’twas “treat with deserved respect” time.

Durncaskyn stood up, planting both hands on his littered desk-and then grandly swept his papers aside in both directions to whirl to the floor.

“Gentlesirs,” he barked, “I’m glad you came to see me. Your concern heartens me, as it would any true servant of Cormyr. Please come around my side of the desk, and behold this map with me.”

There were wordless murmurs of excitement and mollification as the burghers hastened to crowd around. Harklur and Mrauksoun still looked angry, but the rest were bright-eyed. Worked every time.

“Here we are in Immerford,” Durncaskyn told them, pointing but taking care not to plant his finger on it. They’d want to peer close, trying to pick out their own homes on those intricately drawn streets. “Right in the center of it all.”

He moved his pointing hand. “There’s Castle Irlingstar, hard by the frontier. Very difficult country between us, you’ll see. A determined man or a small band might struggle through, but if an army tried, we have a tenday’s warning, or even more.”

His hand moved again. “Now, over here, somewhere in these marshes, is an outlaw band that’s been butchering honest merchants on caravans traveling the East Way, and plundering their goods. The same caravans that bring trade to you, gentlesirs, that make it possible for all Immerfolk to feed themselves, to continue to live here and not become drudges in Sembia or dockhands in Suzail. We’ve been trying to quell word of just how many murders and robberies they’ve managed, because to foster rumor will be to harm Immerford’s future- your prosperity-far more than anything they’ve done, or are likely to do. We’re hunting them right now.”

He moved his pointing finger back to Immerford. “I’ve another little matter, right here at home. Someone who’s impersonating honest citizens long enough to inspect their outgoing shipments in the Longhand and Eskurlaede warehouses-just long enough to remove one or two smallish but valuable items, every time. Your shipments, gentlesirs, and your reputations and demands for repayment. I have to hunt down and stop that someone, before matters get much worse.”

His finger moved south along the East Way, to Hullack Forest. “And then there’s the little matter of the Owl Lord.”

“The what?”

“That’s what we want to know,” Durncaskyn replied smoothly. “A sorcerer, wizard, or perhaps warlock of power, who dwells in the Hullack and casts spells on folk traveling along the road nearby-especially if they camp for the night here, here, or here. He enspells them and worms one or two secrets out of them-magic they know the whereabouts of, or where their wealth is hidden or invested-something he can profit from. Soon thereafter, hired thieves exploit what he’s learned. We’ve only caught one, thus far, and he only knew he was working for a man in an owlhead mask and dark robes, who called himself the Owl Lord. I need to stop this danger before one of you becomes his next victim. ’Tis my duty, saers, to learn of such perils and to deal with them. At any time, dozens-scores-of Crown agents and informants, as well as vigilant upstanding citizens such as yourselves, are hastening here to report to me, so I can act. Just as you have done, here and now. So you see, saers, I have to be here.”

There was a moment of silence, wherein most of the burghers nodded, but Ergol Mrauksoun broke it. The hawk-nosed, energetic moneylender and landlord was still angry but controlling himself with visible effort. “I-we- Lord Durncaskyn, we are not mere dogs barking in the streets of Immerford! We are busy men, men with concerns that crowd us just as these crowd you, and-but-we’ve reached a point that-that-hrast it, this cannot go on, and we agreed to come here today to tell you so!”

“Yes,” Harklur interrupted, “to make it very clear-”