seemed to have set up a lingering, almost invisible spell of some sort-then said curtly, “ Report, Whisper.”
Whisper did not-quite-jump three feet into the air. He did, however, flinch violently and stiffen into immobility, perhaps fearing the worst.
Sarhthor didn’t intend to give it to him. Yet. However, there was no need to begin by reassuring Whisper on that matter.
“I’m waiting,” he said. “I see I must inform you that extremely busy senior mages of the Zhentarim dislike being kept waiting.”
Whisper controlled himself rigidly. His turn to face Sarhthor was slow and almost casual.
“Honored superior,” he said, wearing a tight smile, “I have little to tell. Matters in the vicinity of Eveningstar have been very quiet. I continue to work slowly and subtly to increase our influence without the local crop-muckers hearing the name ‘Zhentarim’ overmuch. At the same time, using spells to assume a variety of guises so no war wizard can trace things here or to me, I’m recruiting suitable knaves as agents.”
“ ‘Knaves’? Just men?”
“No. Aging women, past their years of looking good and enjoying the good regard of fellow Evenor, are my best eyes and ears. Capable and vengeful-and already experienced at peering and gossiping, and known in the village for doing so, hence unsuspicious.”
“What are the local war wizards up to during this oh-so-quiet time?”
“Scrying Arabel, seeking petty lawbreakers among the merchants there.”
“Come now! Whilst the war wizards of Arabel do what?”
“The same task. It seems they’ve one of those pushes to cleanse Arabel; they start one every five or six summers.”
Sarhthor shook his head in disbelief. “Cleansing Arabel I can well believe. Leaving Eveningstar unwatched, I cannot. Watch sharp, or you’ll be caught. This ‘attentiveness elsewhere’ of the war wizards known to you means some of Vangey’s other spell-vultures are scrying Eveningstar-rotation of duties to lull you, catch you unguarded, and train fresh eyes in the detection of Eveningstar’s little troubles. Such as you.”
“No one can scry me unnoticed,” Whisper said, “and I’ve found no hint of anyone trying. Vangey’s skulkers are busy elsewhere, I tell you. Most of them in and around Arabel, and others gathering at High Horn-I know not what for, but I’m trying to find out.”
“Huh. Next you’ll be telling me the Purple Dragon has returned, or someone with spellfire’s been found striding around the Dales. Be careful, Whisper, or your blind overconfidence may soon be the death of you.”
“Thank you, honored superior,” Whisper replied tonelessly.
“Dismiss my advice not, mageling-to do so brings you near to death from two directions, and I doubt you’re a good enough dancer to dodge both the war wizards and the Zhentarim. So take my warning to heart. In the meantime, keep in mind two things: that ‘caravans quietly through’ remains our policy, and that there’s much infighting going on at Zhentil Keep right now; we must all be very careful to obey orders diligently and in every detail.”
Whisper nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes, Sarhthor. I hear and will obey. You may count on me.”
As he spoke, a ruby-red radiance flared into being far down the room. Part of a map graven into the top of a massive stone table was glowing balefully.
Sarhthor’s eyes narrowed. “What intrusion does yon spell warn of?”
“Several persons wearing garments marked by my agents have entered a part of the subterranean stronghold known as the Haunted Halls. Specifically, a part where I may well be able to slay them with relative ease, given the traps I’ve crafted there and the layout of the rooms and passages.”
“And your agents marked these ‘several persons’ because?”
“Because I was suspicious of them. These individuals are the Swords of Eveningstar, members of a newly chartered adventuring band, just arrived in Eveningstar. Mere restless younglings out of Espar, who saved the life of the king of Cormyr and claimed a charter as their reward-but bumbling and soon-slain as adventurers may be, they can still draw unwanted attention and unwittingly harm many schemes and proceedings in their blunderings.”
Sarhthor nodded. “Agreed. Deal with them.” And with those blunt words still hanging in the air, he was gone, leaving Whisper gazing across his empty spellcasting chamber at that distant ruby glow.
“Deal with them, indeed,” he murmured, and waved a hand to awaken a nearby scrying crystal.
It floated obediently nearer, quickening into brightness: the glows of no less than four bobbing, approaching lanterns. The Swords of Eveningstar, shining-eyed with the excitement of having found no less than two secret doors, and through them a huge labyrinth of rooms and corridors running in seemingly all directions, were coming along a passage into what had once been a throne room-and was now home to one of Whisper’s most cunning traps.
Whisper smiled as he strode forward to peer closely into the Haunted Halls-or at least, what little could be seen of them in the depths of the crystal. ’Twas enough, though. ’Twas enough. This should be good.
“I mislike the look of this,” Martess hissed. “There’s magic everywhere in the room ahead of us.”
Agannor and Bey were almost leaning through the open doorway, holding their lamps high. A heap of splintered, gilded ruin lay right in front of their boots: the remnants of fallen, once-grand double doors that had echoed in wood the size and grandeur of the bronze doors guarded by the lightning-spitting statues, somewhere back behind the Swords.
Only, these doors had been adorned with magnificent relief carvings of knights riding leaping war-horses, and from their saddles hewing down orcs, sinister helmed men whose arms seemed to be long tentacles, and what looked like wyverns and wingless dragons. It was hard to tell what all of the monstrous foes were, because the blows of a hard-driven axe had long ago cleft and marred many of the carvings, and time and the damp had caused the edges of those wounds to crumble.
“Looks like a throne room,” Agannor grunted. “A fair place to look for treasure, wouldn’t you say?”
“I say again,” Martess murmured, still on her knees. “Magic-some of it very strong-is everywhere in yon chamber.”
“Hah! Couldn’t some of the treasure we seek be magical? Hey? Like the healing flasks Pennae found?”
“Agannor,” Pennae told him, “we are not alone in these halls. If someone-or something — that speaks Common and understands us is lurking in the darkness anywhere near, you’re loudly telling them everything we’re doing and so telling them exactly when and how to best harm us. So still your tongue. Please.”
Agannor bared his teeth in anger at the slender thief-who shrugged, smiled, and murmured to Martess, “Take all the time you need to be sure, Tess. I want to know exactly where the magic is before I put one toe into the room. And so help me, Agannor, if you lose patience with our caution and go striding in there: I’ve got some concoctions that can make the bites of my knives very interesting-and you’ll feel those bites, if you go on endangering the rest of us by playing the reckless fool here and in any more rooms.”
“Sabruin,” Agannor spat at her. “Just sabruin! ”
“After you do, dearest,” Pennae replied lightly. “After you!”
He growled and waved disgusted dismissal at her-but stayed out of the throne chamber. It was Bey who gave Pennae a hard look and asked, “So, Sharptongue, where would you head from here? What would you do, that’s so much better than just walking into yon room? Hey?”
“Well,” Pennae said, “the first thing I’d explore, before I moved on into that throne room and so left the thing behind me-and between me and the sunlight! — is this niche here in the wall. Small, but placed just where a hand can easily reach into it, and graven with these two symbols. Anyone seen them before? Anyone know what they mean?”
The Swords took turns shuffling forward to peer, and one after another shook their heads in open, obviously sincere denial.
“Well,” Pennae said, when they were done, “I can see something at the back there that I want to probe with my dagger. See the carving of the castle rampart? I wonder why-”
Something cold and blue flashed around her extended dagger-and the passage in front of the throne room was suddenly empty of all trace of Alura Durshavin.
Chapter 18
