So Manshoon wormed his way into the mind of servant after servant at the Towers until he could skulk, listen, and watch at will-riding the unwitting mount of his choice as just one more black shadow in a mansion that had become largely unlit, sheet-shrouded, and neglected. Oh, yes; long before he’d taken any interest in it, House Stormserpent had become a mere shadow of its former self.
Marlin’s father was long dead, leaving real power in the hands of his widow Narmitra. Who hated everything about Suzailan high society and court intrigue and was letting her brother-in-law Mhedarlakh play patriarch because she knew Marlin hated it all, too, and would prefer the freedom to pursue his own interests as long as Mhedarlakh could totter along.
It amused her vastly-just as it did Manshoon-that Mhedarlakh’s feeble wits and his being neither the head of his House nor its heir frustrated other nobles no end. The Stormserpents couldn’t be bound by any agreements old Mhedarlakh made, and fellow nobles couldn’t use him as a reliable source of information about the family nor as a bearer of proposals, agreements, or opinions to any Stormserpent.
There was nothing foolish nor slow-witted about the Lady Narmitra. No peacock, she.
It had been almost immediately clear to Manshoon that Marlin, whether he admitted it to himself or not, was more than a little afraid of her.
Even before Manshoon had stolen into his mind, the young lord’s occasional murmurings to himself revealed all too clearly that Marlin suspected his mother knew what he’d done to Rondras but said nothing because she had always liked him far more than his brothers-and because she was, in turn, a shade scared of him.
And so they danced, mother and son, in a slow and endless duel of barbed comments, deployments of servants, and tacit accords.
Manshoon observed all their little ruses and conversational gambits with frequent delight. It was better than a play.
For his part, Marlin dealt with his mother cordially but firmly, and early on obtained her promise to keep out of certain towers of the house, which were to be his alone. Manshoon admired the lordling’s patience over that. For a long time after obtaining that promise, Marlin did nothing at home that Lady Stormserpent would find at all suspicious-so she could, and did, pry and spy in “his” towers many times only to find nothing worth the looking and eventually lose interest.
At long last, Marlin Stormserpent’s long-awaited breaking forth might just be about to happen. He’d returned home in a hurry, and was bustling about getting the Flying Blade and the chalice out of hiding with a distinct air of glee.
Marlin took off his customary sword belt and weapon, replacing it with the enchanted one, then put on an oversized dark jerkin, thrusting into its breast both the chalice and the notes he’d assembled on how to compel and call forth the blueflame ghosts.
Then he went looking around Stormserpent Towers for the two men he trusted most in the world. The bodyguards he’d hired, rewarded well, and worked closely with the past six or seven seasons.
“The two men,” Manshoon murmured as Marlin rushed off down a passage, paying the dark and motionless form of the House servant whose mind Manshoon was riding no heed at all, “who are
He shook his head. Marlin Stormserpent had thus far been very fortunate in the trust he’d placed in his servants. Far luckier than most nobles.
And just how long would that luck hold out, hmm?
An insistent chiming wrenched Manshoon’s attention away from Stormserpent Towers and back to another of the floating scenes in his cavern. He peered at it for a moment, thrusting his nose forward like the beak of an eager hawk, and slowly smiled.
Mreldrake was close enough … and it was almost better than he could have hoped for.
A battle that should take care of another generous handful of these irritating and meddlesome wizards of war and highknights-and at the end of it, Storm Silverhand would be gone again, leaving the Sage of Shadowdale standing alone.
Just where Manshoon wanted him.
Yes, this should be
In midsmile his eye fell upon another glowing scene, and mirth faded into thoughtfulness in an instant.
Then he nodded to himself. It was high time to remove the head wizards from circulation in the palace, before they had a chance to do anything dangerous. Such as waking up enough to provide some organization and leadership for their magelings, once news of the battle with Elminster reached them.
So what were they up to, just then? Kordran was one of his dupes, so it would be simple to eavesdrop.
Manshoon let his mind descend into the quavering pool of fear that was Kordran’s mind at the moment. From there, he would be close enough to leap into Vainrence, probably undetected …
“I-uh-I–Lords, I-we-”
Wizard of War Aumanas Kordran was as white as new-fallen winter snow and quivering with terror under his streaming mask of sweat, his eyes large and staring.
Abruptly those eyes rolled up in his head, and he slumped to the floor like the proverbial sack of potatoes. A large, limp sack of potatoes.
Ganrahast and Vainrence exchanged weary glances. Their shared opinion of the terrified young war wizard was not a high one, and his report had been neither coherent nor conclusive. Moreover, it was the second time he’d responded to their increasingly sharp questioning by collapsing.
“Leave him,” the Mage Royal said curtly.
Vainrence nodded. “Orders?”
Ganrahast said promptly, “Set a guard over the palace-end of that passage: Nelezmur, Tomarr, Baerendrith, and Helharbras. No doubt all manner of curious courtiers will come sidling up to have a peek at what’s so horrible, the moment word of my more general order gets around.”
Vainrence smiled a trifle bitterly. “And that order is?”
“No courtier nor visitor is to be allowed within earshot of the Chamber of the Wyrms Ascending until specific orders to the contrary are proclaimed by the king or by me,” Ganrahast replied. “And any unfamiliar person seen in the palace is to be retreated from and reported to me-even if they claim to be royalty or an envoy or a ghost or a highknight.”
Vainrence nodded and made for the door.
Ganrahast watched him open it, look out, and acquire the near-smile that meant something had met with Vainrence’s approval.
Something had. The guards had been facing the closed door from the other side of the passage, spaced apart from each other and to either side of the door a good distance away, not pressed against the door trying to listen.
Vainrence beckoned to the courtier he saw beyond the farthest guard, standing by another, open door farther along the passage-and murmuring instructions to a steady stream of scurrying servants. It was Understeward Fentable, who bowed his head and hastened forward to hear Vainrence’s will.
As Vainrence started to repeat Ganrahast’s orders to the courtier, the Mage Royal turned away and stalked across the room to stare grimly down at the sprawled and senseless Kordran.
It hadn’t been much of an interrogation. Perhaps something was awry with the man’s wits.
So with that dark possibility raised, what did they
If some sort of resident undead had done the slayings, why now-when it had supposedly been haunting the palace for years?
What deeper darkness was it going to herald or goad into happening?
In the darkness of his cavern, Manshoon smiled. Clinging lightly to a small part of Lord Warder Vainrence’s mind, he sent his will plunging somewhere else, into a mind darker, colder, and deeper.
