care not to remind them of his ruthless side or the mighty magic he could hurl. Nobles tend to dislike upstarts who threaten them-particularly upstarts who can destroy them at will. His presence was all about reassurance, building alliances if not friendships, and making common cause.
Not to mention establishing a firm alibi for himself, for when word spread of all the waylords slain or embattled, the survivors began to hurl their furious accusations.
Manshoon smiled and thanked his host for the excellent wine.
And why not? It held not even a trace of poison, after all.
His host, directly across the goblet- and platter-crowded table, was Lord Syal Amandon, the callow, bewildered-by-the-world son of Manshoon’s onetime nemesis, the thankfully dead old snow lion Rorst Amandon.
Syal was swiftly falling under his sway, and Manshoon was anxious to keep matters that way. The other nobles-particularly old Hael and Phandymm-knew exactly what he was up to, but had thus far done nothing about it. He saw the anger and contempt glittering in their gazes, but they continued to say and do not the smallest thing to cross the First Lord. Manshoon couldn’t read them-long-established wealth bought wards and shieldings that subtle spells couldn’t pierce-but he looked forward to any opportunity to learn what they were truly thinking.
He hoped one would arise before they were busily trying to put swords through him.
The three younglings were another matter. Lord Thaerun Blackryn, like Syal, was the pale shell of a more formidable sire. Young, hot-blooded, quick to boast, and cunning, he spent most of his hatred and energy trying to best and frustrate his rival, Lord Mindarl Naerh. Who did the same in return. Supercilious and swift-tongued, Naerh was a decade older than Blackryn-and every whit as ignorant of the world.
Belator, now, was a very different creature. As graspingly ambitious as Manshoon himself, and thus easily understood and used. With about as much safety as one “uses” a snake.
That left only Eldarr and his ilk; as old as Hael and Phandymm, but less keen of wit and far less self governed. They were the arrogant, red-faced ranting, patrician sophisticates every minstrel lampooned, the sort of nose-aloft old growlers that shopkeepers of the city thought all nobles were like. Which meant they could be ignored until it became necessary to crush them.
And Manshoon was growing adept at effortlessly crushing the Lord Murvyn Eldarrs of the world.
So it was with more than a little irritation-all signs of which were firmly kept off his face, for controlling his own face and voice were the first skills a far younger Manshoon had honed-that the First Lord of Zhentil Keep received an unexpected spell-sent message in his head.
F-first Lord?
The mind touch was wildly nervous and fearful. It was Joranthas, an aging Zhentarim too weak to be disloyal-and too weak to deal with much in the way of trouble. Which is what this missive would surely be about.
Lord Manshoon, I bring news. Joranthas was still frightened, but a little less frantic.
Yes? he thought back.
Ah, Lord, there’s trouble at Wyrmhaven. I just… fled from there.
No doubt. Continue.
Ambram Sarbuckho returned from his meeting while our forces were still fighting his household servants to get to his Darkway. His bodyguards and hireswords had crossbows, and their quarrels were tipped with poison. Things went badly for our side.
Thank you, Joranthus. Get to cover.
Manshoon spent his flare of rage in a mental slap that both thrust Joranthas out of his mind and dealt the old fool a headache that should leave him reeling for days. He was icily calm a moment later when he turned to beckon Sneel from where the man stood like a servant against the wall.
“Forgive me, Lord Amandon,” he said smoothly to his host, ignoring Lord Hael’s glower of suspicion, “but I’ve just remembered that the servants who usually pump my water are ill; I must send my retainer to give orders to others to do their work, or the cook will have a dry kitchen long before morning.”
“Of course,” Syal said heartily, even before Sneel bent his ear to Manshoon’s lips.
He kept his whispers short and simple. “Trouble at Wyrmhaven; Sarbuckho’s back, and his men have poisoned bolts. Get Cadathen to crush them utterly. No excuses. Report back soon.”
Sneel bowed low and hastened away, and Manshoon turned back to the table with an easy smile.
He wasn’t smiling inside. Cadathen had to be victorious, or the Zhentarim would lose far too many minor magelings at Wyrmhaven-if they weren’t dead already. More importantly, he dared not let Sarbuckho prevail, and become a clear example of successfully defying the Brotherhood. If the waylord won the night’s fray, his victory would hearten many others into their own rebellions against the Zhentarim, large and small.
He ached to be racing to Wyrmhaven himself, to hurl spells to smash and rend Sarbuckho and his every last blade and servant-and instead he was stuck at this table, wearing an empty smile, and taking great care to use no magic at all over eveningfeast. Well, almost no magic.
Lord Belomyr Hael was starting to smile. Bane take Mystra, but the old wolf could scent his discomfort!
Hael was old, graying and growling, a worldly conservative-and right beside him, grandly adorned elbow to grandly adorned elbow, Lord Goraund Phandymm was an even older worldly and pragmatic conservative.
They were both smiling now, almost as if they could read his mind.
Could they?
But no, he’d worked spells a hundred times to check on that. They were just good at reading the smallest signs-tightness of lip, the briefest flash of an eye-but toothless old wolves for all that.
Down the table, Lord Samrel Belator helped himself to a decanter that was almost empty. Now there was a contrast: young, handsome, athletic, an embracer of new ways and ideas… Manshoon’s real competition.
Well, such perils could be humbled-or killed-tomorrow.
Tonight, he needed an alibi rather more.
Manshoon put on his best innocent smile, reached for the nearest decanter, and devoted himself to making empty small talk.
Cadathen would take care of things.
Cadathen would have to.
Orders Upon Orders
The man came through the curtains very quietly, but the two battle captains spun around, swords flashing.
“Halt!” Galandror barked, drawing his dagger and hefting it for a throw. Narleth came around the Darkway to flank his fellow Zhentilar, barring the intruder’s path to the portal, and to Cadathen.
Then they recognized him and fell silent.
“I bring orders from the Lord Manshoon,” Lorkus Sneel said, with just a trace of weariness. “Hinder me and face his wrath.”
The battle captains lowered their swords a little.
“Cadathen,” Sneel said, “you are ordered to gather all of the Brotherhood’s forces you feel you need, proceed in haste to Wyrmhaven, the house of the Waylord Ambram Sarbuckho, and slay everyone there who resists you to take possession of the Darkway. Sarbuckho returned from Harlstrand House while our force was still fighting through the halls of Wyrmhaven, and his bodyguards used poisoned crossbow bolts. Our force is all dead or fled.”
“Take me there,” Cadathen replied promptly, “so you can tell the master what decisions I make, and how I fare.”
“How you begin, rather,” Sneel corrected him. “My orders are to report back to the master soonest.”
“Very well.” Cadathen fell into step beside him, calling back over his shoulder, “Battle captains, remain here and guard this Darkway!”
Even before they replied, he was through the curtain with Sneel, and hastening through the empty, echoing mansion, heading for Wyrmhaven.
Rally and Betrayal
The handful of blood-spattered, wounded Zhentilar crouching in the cold alleyway were in pain, and angry. They snarled out a stream of curses as they told Cadathen they had fled for their lives, or been driven out of Wyrmhaven, leaving many fellow members of the Brotherhood dead inside. Ambram Sarbuckho was victorious.
