Elminster Enraged

Farland was mildly astonished to find himself on the verge of smiling. This Duth Gulkanun was … likeable. All too vocally ironic, but far less irritating than Lord Delcastle, Master of Mockery, yonder. Hrast it, he liked this man.

“Very well,” he said, turning quickly to glare at the other war wizard-the one with the curse that shapechanged his hand continually. As usual he had moved silently to stand too close. Close enough that he’d be crowding any man, not just a jailer trained to guard against such things, to keep prisoners distant, and give himself enough room to swing a mace or a sword.

This man, he did not like. Sly and sharp tongued, entirely untrustworthy in word and deed. A felon, Farland would have deemed him if meeting him for the first time and not knowing this Longclaws was a wizard of war. He’d fit right in with the noble guests in Irlingstar.

Aye, the man struck him as properly a prisoner, not any sort of respectable Crown officer. If they’d been alone, Farland would have reminded him sternly in an instant that the penalty for treason was death.

“Very well,” he repeated, advancing on the irritating Imbrult Longclaws until the man-satisfyingly, but lord constables learned to claim and count such small satisfactions-gave ground, “we’ll do it your way.”

“And trust what answer I return with?”

Farland nodded, and he managed to quell a sigh ere he echoed, “And trust whatever answer you get.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A ROOM FOR THE NIGHT

Not surprisingly for a fortress built as a prison, Castle Irlingstar didn’t have many outside balconies. One of its few opened off the records room, adjacent to Farland’s own office.

Wizard of War Gulkanun headed out onto it now, Longclaws following him as far as the records room. There the curse-ridden wizard turned, leaned back against the desk, and drew two wands from his belt. Though he said not a word, his intent was obvious: to keep everyone at bay, back where they couldn’t see what Gulkanun did. The magic of opening a small breach in the wards was a war wizard secret, and would be kept that way.

Farland glowered at Longclaws, who met his gaze with a faint smile. They both knew what Gulkanun was doing, but that didn’t mean the lord constable had to like it. So many folk were trying to give him orders in his own castle that he was on the verge of losing track of them all, hrast it.

This Gulkanun-a decent sort, as far as war wizards went-needed the breach to spell speak with Glathra Barcantle back in Suzail, to report the deaths and inquire if the two new prisoners were indeed the undercover Crown agents they claimed to be.

Glathra. The lord constable’s fingers went again to the pendant he wore, hidden from view beneath his ever- present gorget. It was a token from her, that she’d given him on a tender night long before matters had ended so badly between them.

“Use it if ever you need me at your side,” she’d said, her eyes large and dark. Words he’d never forget.

So why was he so all-fired glad that some slab-faced wizard of war was talking to her now, so he didn’t have to?

The Crown mages marched back into the room, far sooner than he’d expected. Farland snatched his fingers away from the hidden pendant as if it might burn them.

“Suzail now knows about the killings,” Gulkanun told him, “and these two can be trusted; they are what they claim to be.”

Farland inclined his head. “My thanks, saer.” He turned to Amarune and Arclath. “Deepest apologies to the both of you. I hope you’ll appreciate that a lord constable cannot be too careful.”

“Of course,” Arclath said graciously, as Amarune nodded.

Farland smiled and waved one hand at an apparently solid wall. He saw Lord Delcastle crook his eyebrows, and he hastily leaned forward with his keys to forestall whatever clever-and irritating-comment the noble might make, to unlock the secret door. Making a swift “stay back” Crown signal he knew the two mages would understand, he led the two prisoners-ah, undercover agents-through the door.

The room beyond was small, windowless, and had no other door, only ventilation holes about the size of a small man’s wrist in opposing corners. Crammed into it was a cot that served both as a bed and as a seat for use with the low, plain table beside it-a table that held a decanter, two stout wooden mugs, a dome-covered earthenware platter, and a lanceboard set up for a game.

Farland lifted the dome to reveal wedges of cheese and sausages, and pointed at the decanter. “Wine.” As graciously as any socially climbing Suzailan hostess, he waved the two Crown agents to seat themselves, stepping back to give them room.

“Yours for the night, Crown agents,” he said gently, from the door. “We’ll confer on the morrow.”

Then he stepped outside, slammed the door-and locked them in.

“So what,” Elminster murmured aloud, “would Brannon Lucksar do?”

Use the secret war wizard way in, Symrustar suggested dryly, inside her head. If the chapbooks and tavern tales can be believed, there always is one.

El sighed, nodded, and started along the castle wall, trailing his fingertips along the dark, rough stones and watching his rings closely. If they glowed, that just might mean a secret entrance.

If not …

Hammer on the prison doors and try to seduce the guards who show up. That should get you arrested.

“Everyone should carry a Chosen in their head,” El murmured aloud. “They’re so helpful.”

In the back of his mind, Symrustar made a very rude sound.

Arclath charged the door, furious, but he might as well have been hammering on and clawing at solid stone.

Pulling and tugging and shoving the immobile door vainly, he called the lord constable some choice things ere he gave up, panting, and spun back to Amarune.

“I’m sorry, Rune,” he sighed. “I was such a fool! I should have seen that coming, should’ve-”

Amarune’s fingers tapped across his lips, to still his speech. She gave him a crooked smile and held up one of her boots. She must have slipped it off while he was attacking the door.

He watched her press with her finger and thumb at the front corners of its heel, where the heel curved in before flaring out again to underlie the rest of the foot-and pull gently, straight back.

The heel slid off the boot, revealing itself to be the hilt of a short dagger. “Careful,” she breathed, holding it up. “This is razor sharp.”

“Where did you-?”

“Storm. She got it from a Harper in Suzail for me.” Rune set the dagger on the table and shook the boot, her hand cupped to catch whatever fell out of the revealed cavity in the foresole that the dagger blade had been sheathed in.

Out dropped something small, wrapped in silk. She did something deft with her fingers and thumb that splayed the silk bundle open, and Arclath found himself looking at an array of lockpicks.

“I’m the Silent Shadow, remember?” Rune whispered with a smirk.

Slowly, Arclath smiled back.

His lady glided close and embraced him. The better to murmur disbelievingly into his ear, “Are those two truly wizards of war? Have you ever heard of a war wizard who has to live with a magical curse?”

Arclath shook his head. “No, and-”

He promptly forgot whatever else he was going to say as the floor surged under their feet, as if trying to rise