Elminster Must Die

by other means. Even if Mystra never returns to us, we will have bettered the Realms-worth doing in itself, lass! Achievements far greater than most kings or priests ever even intend to accomplish, let alone the paltry results they manage!”

Amarune poured herself the last of the wine and sat back with a sigh, eyeing the man who claimed to be her ancestor.

“You want me to carry on with this self-appointed, never-finished work of saving the entire Realms,” she said grimly. “Cast aside work I do well and take pride in, the life I’ve built for myself-a life I like, mind, no matter how low and coin-poor it may be-and do dangerous and, no doubt, often illegal things and be thought crazed by everyone, for … a dream. Your dream. The dream of a century ago, of dead gods and struggles lost and done when my mother was yet young.”

Elminster smiled. “Aye. I knew ye’d see to the heart of it in an instant. That’s my lass; blood runs true.”

“I have not agreed to anything, old man,” Amarune told him angrily.

“True, true. Yet, having seen the world more clearly, ye will. Not now, not perhaps for years yet, but … ye will. Ye will find ye cannot stand back and look away when there are wrongs that need righting and suffering that need not be and things that could be better for all and less cruel for many. We’re meddlers, we cursed few. ’Tis in the blood.”

“Not my blood,” Amarune snapped. “I’ve more sense.”

“Ah. That would be why ye go out brawling of evenings with Lord Arclath Delcastle,” Elminster told his nigh empty tallglass dryly. “ ’Tis the sensible thing for a mask dancer to do.”

Amarune flushed crimson. “I like Arclath. And if the king’s writ means anything, it should mean lasses and jacks of Cormyr can choose their friends freely, noble or common, rich or poor, and not answer to anyone for it. Given years enough, it should make the realm stronger, as all citizens know each other better, and no one will sneer at a freeman or goodwife because of the name they were born with or the-”

“Ye preach to the converted, lass,” Elminster murmured. “Who d’ye think fixed the wording of the writ, one night while Foril lay snoring not a spear-length away? Took me much of the night to fake his fist, so he’d look at the changes in the morning and think he had roused himself in the night to make them, not that someone else came stealing in to set things to rights.”

Amarune stared at him then said sarcastically, “And I suppose you arranged half the noble marriages of the last decade, and you secretly tempt and test every last war wizard, too?”

“Nay. Just two marriages, and I’ve only managed to test the loyalty of about a third of the current wizards of war-Vainrence keeps a very close eye on them all, and getting caught vetting his fellowship of law wands would be worse than not probing them at all.”

Amarune stared across the table. “You’re serious. You’re farruking serious.”

“Of course. Drink that down, lass; we’re just getting started. Having swept the legs out from under the tiny stool ye are so pleased to call the life ye’ve built for thyself, ’tis merely my duty to fill thy brain with weapons, to help ye defend that stool so it has any chance at all of lasting a little longer. I’ll be needing ye to help me find and steal certain little gewgaws that hold the ghosts of the Nine, but first, for thine own protection, ye should know the truth about this Talane ye’re now haunted by …”

Despite the hour and the fact that Stormserpent Towers was an abode of nobility, the Purple Dragons banging on its doors were most insistent. The burden of their repeated demands was the desire to speak with Lord Marlin Stormserpent, without delay.

Sleepy, exasperated servants failed to convince the soldiers to wait until a time fashionably after morningfeast, and so in the end reluctantly roused Marlin and brought word to him that soldiers of the Crown were at his gates, would not leave, and wanted audience with him immediately.

Marlin went from surly sleepiness to wide awake and stiff with alarm in a proverbial instant. His first act was to curtly dismiss his servants, telling them he was quite capable of dressing himself.

Indeed, he was well on his way to being garbed by the time the door closed behind the last of them. Running a hand over his stubbled face and deciding not to take the time to shave, the heir of House Stormserpent stamped his feet into his boots, snatched up the scabbarded Flying Blade and buckled it on, thrust Thirsty well into the breast of his jerkin, and gave his pet’s head the double tap that told it to bide quiet until he called or hauled it forth again, and took up the chalice into his hand as if he had been disturbed in the act of drinking from it.

There. Ready. He glowered at his nearest mirror ere turning and hastening down to the forehall to meet with the Dragons.

When he came down the stair, they were standing in a grim, silent little group, waiting for him.

“Well?” Marlin asked shortly, sparing no breath on greetings or even a pretense of politeness.

“We have need of your aid, Lord Stormserpent. Please come with us. Just as far as your front doors, yonder.”

“Why?” Marlin snapped. “What’s-?”

They said nothing, turning in unison to tramp to his doors.

Marlin glared sidelong at his silent servants then followed the Dragons.

One front door of the Towers was ajar, and there were more soldiers outside.

“So what’s all this about?” Marlin asked, stepping aside to avoid being caught in the doorway with Dragons all around him.

“We need you to identify this dead man,” a telsword told him gravely. “We’ve been told he’s a servant of yours. Truth?”

By then, Marlin was gaping down at the corpse on the litter, and his face was heading for the same dead- white hue that the body sported. It was Gaskur, the man he most trusted in all the world. His personal servant for years, his trade agent … a huge sword cut that left his throat gaping open told anyone with eyes how he’d died.

“Who … who did this?” Marlin blurted, his own throat closing around sudden tears, the room seeming to silently rock around him.

A firm hand at his back steadied him, and he was vaguely aware that the soldiers who’d been watching his face with intent and suspicious frowns were relaxing, some of them looking almost pitying.

“Where did you find him?” Marlin asked, his voice quavering like that of any young lass. Hearing no reply, he shook his head fiercely and turned away.

“That is my servant, yes,” he told the air blindly as he headed for the distant board across the forehall and its gleaming array of decanters. “Gaskur by name, a man true and loyal. I trusted him more than anyone.”

He found the decanters and turned. “Will you join me in a toast to a good man? And for the love of all the gods, tell me how he died!”

“Does the word or name ‘Talane’ mean anything to you, Lord?” The telsword’s voice was near and low down, as if the Dragon was half-kneeling so he could see Marlin’s face.

Marlin opened both eyes and told him fiercely, “No. Gods, no. Never heard it before now. Who or what is Talane?”

“We’d like to know that ourselves, Lord. It was written on the roof of a many-tenants house not far south and west of here, in your man’s blood. His throat was slit, as you can see, and his body hurled down from that roof into a midyard. Can you tell us why he may have been there, Lord Stormserpent? Was he out and about in the city on your bidding?”

Marlin shook his head, pouring himself a drink with hands that trembled. “He lived here in this house, and so far as I know had no kin nor friends-nor property, for that matter-in Suzail. I know little of his habits and doings when on his own time, but mark you: Gaskur was trusted, and his time off was his own, to forge and further his own life, not dance always in Stormserpent livery.”

“Thank you for your assistance and for your offer,” the telsword said gravely, “but we’re in some haste, now. We’ll leave you to your private grief and take the remains of your man with us; the wizards of war will want to examine it.”

“Good,” Marlin said bitterly. “You do that. And come back and tell me what they find, for if the Crown does not find someone and make them pay for this-this foul murder, loyal swords of the realm, hear me well: