“Leave the wizards to the master,” Sneel said coldly. “Tell me of Halamaun.”
“Short, ugly, a glutton. Grasping and greedy-the man’s a landlord and a coinlender, what more need I say?”
“His trades.”
“Uh, builder. And repairer of most buildings in the keep.”
“Very well. Your fourth?”
“Mantras Jhoszelbur. Trader in metals and ores, owns our biggest foundry, two weaponsmi-”
“Three. He owns three, and is busily buying out a fourth.”
“Very well. That many weaponsmiths’ shops, five ships I know of”-Kelgoran paused, one brow raised in challenge, but Sneel merely nodded, so the warrior continued-“two steadings where war horses are bred, reared, and trained, and a smallish coster or two. More interesting than all of that, though: Stormwands House. His own little school of wizardry, composed of the elderly mage Paerimrel of Amn and a dozen or so students, all young. They call themselves ‘the Stormwands.’ Jhoszelbur’s old, short tempered, and-”
“Who are the most powerful of the Stormwands, the ones we must be wary of?”
“-ruthless. There are two Stormwands to beware: Rorymrar and Jonthyn. My men and I have gone drinking with them more than once, under the master’s orders. They are… less accomplished than they believe themselves to be, but dangerous nonetheless.”
“That’s four. The fifth?”
“Ambram Sarbuckho, a-”
Four guards in full and gleaming black armor stepped through the tapestries in front of them, then drew the tapestries back and secured them with their chains. The full-face helms that kept them anonymous made their voices boom; the nearest commanded, “Enough. The master is not in a patient mood. Enter.”
The doors were thrust wide, revealing a thin wisp of smoke that coiled and then rose like a snake about to strike.
The three men had never seen such magic before, but they knew better than to hesitate. They strode forward, right through the smoke, and the guards slammed the doors behind them and went to their crossbows, fixed by firing ports that pierced the walls of the room beyond. Their loaded and ready bolts were tipped with a poison only Manshoon would take no harm from-for the First Lord of Zhentil Keep was a careful man.
The Prize of Indispensability
Manshoon waved the three to the waiting seats at the far end of the long, polished table, and regarded them expressionlessly. These were his most accomplished servants, which meant they were adept at acting loyal.
Sneel, Cadathen, and Kelgoran-useful to him in that descending order, yet utterly disposable whenever the need arose.
“As Sneel has no doubt revealed without actually saying so,” he said flatly, “I have decided to free Zhentil Keep from the tyranny of the waylords. Now.”
He looked to his spy. “Begin subtly spreading word through our usual mouths that Halamaun is finally sick of Dorloun, and is covertly gathering hired bullyblades to start killing Dorloun’s employees, suppliers, and clients whenever they can be caught alone.”
He waited for Sneel to nod, then added, “You are also to start rumors that Jhoszelbur has decided to crush his longtime and increasingly successful rival Calagaunt. Further, you are to ensure that servants of all the waylords hear that the First Lord of the city is gathering power to decide who shall rise as lords in Zhentil Keep, and who shall be forced out of trade, the keep, and if need be, continued life. Then report back to me for additional orders.”
Sneel nodded, but made no move to rise. The hint of a smile rose to Manshoon’s lips.
“You are dismissed. Tarry not to try to overhear my orders to these two.”
“Of course,” Sneel replied, nodding low over the table before rising and smoothly making for the doors.
Manshoon waited for a signal-a single tap against the wall-after the doors had closed behind his departing spymaster. Then he looked at Kelgoran and spoke again.
“Gather your worst and most bumbling blades-those we need to test, and can easily afford to lose-for assaults on the mansions of Dorloun, Halamaun, and Jhoszelbur. Muster them at the warehouses, at the slaughterhouse, and at the Black Barrel; you choose which, for which. They’re not to move, show themselves, or swing blades at anyone before I say so.”
Kelgoran’s nod was quick, and came with a pleased smile; he had already risen before Manshoon added, “Yes, you’re dismissed.”
The warrior’s eager hastening brought a swift closing of the doors and the tap that followed them, leaving Manshoon and Cadathen alone together.
Whereupon the First Lord of Zhentil Keep drew a small, plain bone goblet from under the table, then an even smaller knife. Cadathen went pale.
“A renewal,” Manshoon said calmly, drawing the blade along the outside edge of his hand. Dark red blood welled out, and he held his hand to let it run down his fingers and drip into the goblet, as he licked the knife clean and slid it across the table to Cadathen.
Who deftly trapped it with his hand, rose and went to the goblet, gave himself a similar wound, licked the knife, and set it carefully down beside Manshoon, his hands trembling slightly.
When the goblet was full, the master’s murmured word and swift gesture would enact the blood spell. After they both drank, any harm suffered by Manshoon would instantly also be dealt to Cadathen.
White-faced, he whispered, “Why is this necessary, lord? Again?”
Manshoon smiled. “Call it a precaution that should hurt a loyal Cadathen not at all, but bestow upon a Cadathen of darker deed or intent a fitting traitor’s reward. I need your silence, but also need you to know my plan, so you can adjust matters out in the streets and mansions to ensure it has the effects I desire. So heed well.”
He cast the spell, they both drank from the glowing goblet, and Manshoon waved Cadathen back to his seat.
Only after the still-pale wizard was settled again did he add, “The waylords will be broken-or eliminated-by an enchantment I have just perfected, that will very soon be cast upon all of the Darkways. Anyone who passes through those portals thereafter will die, horribly and instantly, as my spell transforms all the blood in their veins to a potent flesh-melting acid.”
Cadathen looked excited, but uneasy. “But will the Darkways not prove useful, in time to come?”
“They will. As doors that open when I want them to, not doors standing open always that can let sellsword armies hired in Sembia flood into the very heart of Zhentil Keep whenever some greedy Sembian or other decides our gems and metals make the keep worth the trouble of plundering. Even beholders can slay only so many sellswords before they get overwhelmed and hacked apart. And should such a dark day come, wizards like me-and you-will survive far less time than elder eye tyrants like Argloth or Xalanxlan.”
Cadathen nodded, wincing.
“So traversing the Darkways will be fatal except when I remove my spells,” Manshoon purred. “And only I will know when those times are. Making me too valuable for anyone who cares for Zhentil Keep to slay. I love being indispensable.”
Windtatter Moon Rising
Rain had stopped lashing at the windowpanes, and there was moonlight at last.
A weary but very happy Lord Bellander rose on his elbows and gazed out the window.
“Ah,” he murmured. “A windtatter moon.”
“Indeed,” replied the senior priestess lying bare and beautiful in the bed beside him. “It’s why I’m here.”
Bellander lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? Not for me?”
Bride of Darkness Orlpharla sat up rather briskly. “The Dread God revealed to Lord Holy Fzoul that the next windtatter moon would bring great peril to House Bellander. I’m here to keep you alive until morning.”
“And after that?”
“After that, Lord Bellander,” Orlpharla said coldly, “your survival is in your own hands. Our most recent visions suggest we’ll be rather busy trying to keep Zhentil Keep from erupting into civil war.”
The Reapers Loosed
There arose heavy thuds of many staves and axes crashing against the doors, right on cue. His hired armsmen had timed matters rather well.
