Elminster Must Die

WIZARDS GO TO WAR

Mreldrake gave the Purple Dragons a nod and an unpleasant smile and disappeared rather hastily back through the door he’d come from.

The swordcaptain looked at the two lords who might not be lords and pointed imperiously at another door, one that stood open. “Walk that way, saers. We’ll be escorting you-and won’t hesitate to make holes in you with our spears, so try nothing foolish.”

“I rarely do,” the possible Ganrahast impostor informed the man with dignity as they set off, the Dragons shifting position to keep their prisoners menaced before and behind by leveled spears.

After a few strides he added, “I require your name, Swordcaptain.”

“Yet will receive only disappointing silence,” came the prompt reply. “I don’t take orders from prisoners.”

The perhaps-false Royal Magician stopped and spun around to face the officer directly, ignoring the spears that thrust at him warningly. “In the name of the king,” he barked, “yield unto me your name!”

The officer hesitated.

“As you seem to be a stickler for orders,” Vainrence put in softly, “suppose you obey one of the standing ones.”

“We’re required to give our names to Dragons of superior rank, certain courtiers, and … uh,” the swordcaptain replied, wincing. “Ah, Lord Ganrahast, I am Paereth Vandurn. Swordcaptain Paereth Vandurn.” He regained his gruff confidence almost visibly, thrusting his chin forward. “So, who are the two of you-really?”

The prisoner who might or might not be Lord Vainrence thrust a spear aside with one hand to wag a disapproving finger at the swordcaptain. “You’re less than polite, Slamburn, and I’ll tell this war wizard so! Lead us to him!”

“I am not-,” the swordcaptain began heatedly, but he stopped as he saw smirks appear and as hastily vanish from the faces of more than a few of his men.

Drawing a deep breath, he managed a brittle smile and said, “But of course, Lord Warder. If you’ll kindly proceed through yon door, obeying the directions of the nice men in uniform holding the spears pointed at you, you shall have your opportunity to speak to a war wizard soon enough. For the greater glory of Cormyr, of course.”

“For some years,” Elminster informed Vandurn haughtily, “those very words have been mine to speak: ‘for the greater glory of Cormyr.’ ”

“Ahhh, good,” the officer replied heavily, his smile becoming decidedly desperate. “Very good. The door, now, is just this way …”

On the far side of the ring of spears from the swordcaptain, someone among the stone-faced Dragons snickered.

“Who did that?” Vandurn snapped. “Who? I’ll be requiring some nam-”

He broke off and fell silent just a moment too late.

The Royal Magician began the laughter, and the Lord Warder swelled it with hearty guffaws, but at least two Dragons joined in-and then they all did, mirth ringing around the passage.

With one exception. In the heart of it all, a certain crimson-to-the-ears swordcaptain clenched his jaws and silently steamed.

Talane. That name echoed like a curse in her mind, the chant of some dark seer desiring her doom … Talane.

One night, and she was undone. One night-no, less than half an hour-and her life had been shattered, her freedom gone.

She was caught in the ruthless talons of someone she didn’t even know.

Amarune felt exhausted. Bone weary. With a full night facing her.

Disheartened, the bards called it. When singing about someone else. She wished that was who felt that way, instead of her: someone else.

She pushed open the side door of the club and slipped inside. It was hours before she’d have to be up on that stage, but this was her usual routine, and what most Dragonriders’ dancers did: come early, soak in a long bath, dry off slowly in a warm room and have her hair done by Taerlene or Mrarie, eat a hearty meal, and then sink into a nice long nap. All of it behind the club’s closed doors, so she’d be safe inside, not having to run the gauntlet of leering admirers that would await her if she arrived later.

The dressing room was silent and empty. She frowned. Usually four or five of her fellow dancers who followed the same routine made it there before her …

There was something in her accustomed chair. A large sack, it looked to be. Laundry, dumped here by one of the maids, getting interrupted?

The door swung closed behind her with its usual slight squeal-and then her chair spun around by itself to face her.

Or, no-the man sitting in it had turned it with a kick, to face her and warm her with his easy smile.

No sack, after all. The Lord Arclath Delcastle was lounging in her chair.

“Well met,” he said brightly, his smile growing even broader.

Amarune was too startled to be polite. “What are you doing here?” she blurted.

“Waiting for you, obviously. I paid your fellow dancers some rather large sums to be primped at the Gilded Feather today, to leave the room clear for me. For us.”

The Gilded Feather was the most expensive pretty-parlor in all Suzail. Though it was only a street away, Amarune had never been inside it. Its noble patrons tended to sneer at mask dancers, and its staff did rather more than sneer.

“Us?”

Gods above, no. Trapped by the mysterious Talane, and now this.

Oh, he’d been nice enough to her, and all nobles were crazed, but … stlarn it, she and probably most of Suzail thought the prancing fop Arclath Delcastle preferred men in bed and admired women merely as diversions.

But it seemed as if he was going to turn out to be another nightmare. One of the “obsessed” who stalked dancers and made dangerous nuisances of themselves until they had to be dealt with. Not that dealing with noble heirs was easy.

Well, farruk the Purple Dragon, she was going to deal with him, right away! It would cost her lots of forgone coins in the years ahead, but-

Whether or not it dissuaded him, she was going to beat the natal innards out of him! He’d be a laughingstock if he went to the Robes about her, so the worst that could happen would be her arrest-which would at least get her away from the spying of Talane and out of that bitch’s reach, and perhaps win her a little time to think of a way to flee that trap.

Without another word or wild thought, Amarune set her teeth and went for him, hands like claws and knees ready to drive in hard and see if she could dent that ridiculous codpiece he was wearing.

“Lady!” he said reproachfully, ducking and twisting with surprising speed-and lashing out a hand to ensnare one of her wrists.

Successfully. Gods, but he was strong!

She clawed at him with her free hand, catching a nail on something.

“Lady,” the lordling panted, wriggling like an eel under her, his free hand grabbing at hers, “I don’t want you to misunderstand my-uhh! — motives. I’m not here to-ah! — assault your-uh! — charms!”

He caught hold of her other wrist. With a shriek, Amarune slammed herself down on him, pelvis riding his belt buckle bruisingly, so she could get close enough to bite him. And managed it. Hard.

He roared out a less-than-coherent curse of pain as she wrenched her hands free and clawed at him again,