Elminster Enraged

El had to get away from everyone, to where her will could be gathered not just to hurl Art, but to listen for a response from somewhere distant, and to try to feel where that somewhere was. Just as fast as she could.

Halfway down a steep stone stair, well away from any cell or guard, she stopped, sat down against a cold stone wall, closed her eyes, and tried to fight down her panting. So she could reach out …

Alassra, I’m here! Where are ye?

Her silent call rolled out into echoing distances, rolled … rolled … El strained to listen and to feel, seeking any response.

Nothing.

She tried again. Alassra, beloved, ’tis me, Elminster. Ye called, and I’m here. Where are ye? How can I help ye?

Rolling out … away … away … Nothing.

Nothing but a sudden burst of searing white fire, like a slap across her mind, a roaring bright inferno too distant and painful to locate-

Before it was gone, leaving her with silent nothing again.

Again she called, straining, snatching out one of the drow daggers she’d taken from that shattered Underdark citadel, the one that had prickled with a faint enchantment. She bent her will fiercely upon it, trying to drain its magic to bolster her calling …

After what seemed a long time, the black glass dagger sighed into gritty dust in her palm, and El called again, loud and strong. To no avail.

She hadn’t the Art to reach her Alassra. Or she was too late. Always too busy, always too far away …

“No,” she sobbed aloud, suddenly furious.

She stood up and slammed one shapely drow fist against the wall beside her. There was a flash like awakened fire, a deep-throated boom, and the wall cracked, tiny shards clattering down the steps below her.

Arrrgh! Magic when she didn’t need it, but it failed here when sheeeeeARRGH!

“Elminster!”

That shout from back down the passage above was frantic, and came from the lungs of a young man and a young woman. Voices he knew: Arclath and Amarune. Eyes of Mystra, but why did someone always need her?

“Haven’t I served long enough?” she spat down the deserted stairwell. “Why me? Why always me?”

She whirled around and raced back up the stair, her eyes blazing, the rage that had been building in her for years-centuries-rising almost to choke her.

Ye’ve called, and Elminster is coming. Ready thyself, Realms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

SOMETHING STERN AND CLEAR

I am no cheap swindler, lackey! I am Lady Jalassra Dawningdown!” Eyes flashing and wattles quivering-or so it seemed to Rensharra, given the pendulous display of scented and powdered dewlap across the desk-the outraged noblewoman shot to her feet, her bejeweled earrings dangling, and snarled, “You’ll die waiting for me to pay these outrageous demands!”

The highborn Lady Dawningdown spat copiously on the tax documents Rensharra Ironstave had prepared and just finished politely explaining with largely gentle observations noting that however noble one happened to be, one could not escape paying annual cobble-and-lantern taxes on every additional city property one purchased. The bill was high because modest fees on sixty-one Suzailan homes, shops, and stables, when combined, did mount up, but of course could be paid out of the rents those properties brought to their owner, namely Lady Jalassra Dawningdown.

Then she stormed out of the office of the lady clerk of the rolls, viciously decapitating a defenseless plant and its vase with her goldhandled cane on her way.

Rensharra sank back into her chair with a sigh, passing a weary hand over her face. Nobles! Were they all going to be like this, forevermore?

Spitting fury and defiance seemed to be the favored tactic for them all this season. Ignore the bills, turn away tax collectors, or set dogs or more exotic pets on them, and when the bill was upped for late payment-a season late-storm into the palace offices. To claim penury in just-bought fine garments and in a staged or real towering fury.

Rensharra set about tidying Lady Dawningdown’s thick file to clear the desk for the next one.

Nobles disputing their taxes always demanded to speak to the chief responsible official-herself-and always smashed things, bellowed or venomously hissed threats, and stormed out again when they were done. To await the next and even higher bill, so they could repeat the same so-polite, cultured performance. However, noble bellowers always paid up before the Crown started confiscating property in lieu of payment, she’d noticed.

The lady clerk of the rolls drew in a deep breath and allowed herself to relax. Perhaps the day would get better, after this.

Perhaps.

“Well, well,” an unpleasant voice drawled from the landing above. “What have we here? Why, a dark elf, I do believe, one of those evil and dangerous creatures, yet so beautiful! Such a tempting evil! It’s almost our duty to slay it, yes?”

“So it is! After we taste its beauty, mind, for beauty is its own reward and a life spent cultivating beauty is the life a noble deserves!” another oily voice agreed.

Stolen guards’ knives were flourished, as the noble smiles above them widened.

“Come up to play, little drow beauty,” the first escaped prisoner beckoned mockingly. “Why, Gustravus, she seems almost eager!”

Eyes blazing but saying not a word, Elminster raced up the stair. When the hands reached for her, she didn’t slow in the slightest.

The prisoners barely had time to scream.

“Relrund! Torz! I’ve work for you!”

Lady Dawningdown bit off those words like she wanted to gnaw something. Her two eldest bullyblades exchanged glances, keeping their faces carefully expressionless. Someone was soon going to die.

“Take the two younglings with you, go straight to the office of Rensharra Ironstave-the lady clerk of the rolls, they call her, as if she was remotely worthy of carrying a title, even an empty one-and beat her to death. Make it last and see that she suffers, but keep her fairly quiet or you’ll have half the guards in the palace down on your necks. Just so you’ll show no mercy, be aware that she’s the kingdom’s chief tax collector.”

Fixing them with a glare that left no doubt at all in their minds that she was neither drunk nor fooling, their employer settled herself into her usual seat in the back corner of her coach and slammed the door so fiercely that things rattled all over the conveyance.

Relrund and Torzil bowed in her direction with careful precision-she’d be watching, of that they had no doubt at all-did off their swords and put them in the front seat of the coach, collected their two fellow bullyblades and had them do the same, and strode into the Palace.

They were still wearing their daggers, both visible and hidden, and the short iron bars they carried inside their left boots. And though they said not a word aloud to each other, they were thinking the exact same thoughts as they strode.