Elminster Must Die

Mirt raised his brows, face mild.

Windstag strode forward, menacing the Waterdhavian with his sword. “Though we do know how rich lords of Waterdeep are. So you can either yield up a lot of coin to us, here and now-or die.”

The old man sighed.

“I don’t, as it happens,” he said sourly, “carry heavy sacks of coins around in my codpiece-or anywhere else under these old rags, either. All the bulges ye see are my own.”

“So how much coin can you lay hands on in Suzail? And how quickly?”

“Well,” Mirt wheezed, lumbering forward with an utter disregard for the sharp points of their swords, to peer at the table that displayed Marlin’s map of the city, “that depends.”

“On?” The decanter had caught Marlin’s interest, but he stopped heading for it to see just where on the map the old man-who was standing right against the table, holding onto it for support-was looking.

“On whether or not ye fall for this,” the old man said calmly, heaving up, hard-and hurling the table over onto the fine-booted toes of both noblemen.

Who shrieked in pain and dropped their swords, lost in writhing agony. Which gave Mirt plenty of time to take a heavy statuette of Arlond Stormserpent Slaying a Dragon from the sideboard, lurch alongside the blindly hopping, shouting Windstag, and dash the noble to the floor with a blow to the head.

Marlin, who was also hopping in pain, turned to try to fight, lost his balance, and toppled. Whereupon Arlond landed hard on his face, breaking his nose and sending him off to dreamland.

Mirt calmly drew his dagger and sliced free two bulging noble purses. “That quickly,” he told the silent, sprawled, and copiously bleeding Marlin Stormserpent.

The royal palace of Suzail was always quieter by night than by day. Not that the servants ever slept-least of all with the council almost upon the realm-but by the dark hours the collective vigilance of guards, courtiers, and wizards of war had at least ensured that all the visiting nobles were temporarily gone, and no more of them were coming to the gates haughtily demanding things.

With morning heading for highsun, the floors above were abuzz with busy servants-though much furniture- shifting and rifling of the wine cellars had been done, and most of the chambers of state arranged, prepared, and then firmly shut up to await their coming times of need. Only the kitchens were working full tilt, with already-weary chambermaids pressed into service to help shift fresh-baked goods from the ovens to tables in nearby function rooms, thereby clearing the way so that more could be baked.

The lone armored figure stalking unseen past all this tumult in one of the better-known secret passages was weary, too. He’d filched an entire tray of sage-and-egg tarts-better a tray than just one or two, when that might rouse a search for some lurking intruder-and had eaten more than was comfortable, but this armor had room enough for a dozen trays of uneaten tarts, if he cared not how much they crumbled.

Elminster was slowly getting used to the weight and awkwardness of the armor-without its leather underpadding, it shifted loosely at his every movement and seemed to have a great abundance of sharp, jabbing edges-and had long since concluded that King Duar Obarskyr must have been more mighty bull than man.

In his postprandial discomfort, and seeking to avoid unpleasant confrontations with Purple Dragons or officious wizards, he had taken his overfull stomach and copious resulting wind down to the lower levels of the palace. Where he trudged along damper, colder passages, correctly believing he was not so likely to be noticed and thought out of place down here and challenged.

“Send no hounds to hunt me down,” he muttered, belching sage and eggs.

“Stop daydreaming and attend my words!”

This sort of bark meant Hallowdant was really angry. O Purple Dragon, preserve us all.

The man who called himself Lothrae when he was sitting masked in front of an orb talking to foolish young Stormserpent stifled a sigh and put a pleasantly attentive smile on his face. “Yes, Lord High Steward?”

Rorstil Hallowdant preened visibly. He loved it when someone pronounced his full title with just the right hint of reverent awe.

Lothrae wished he could enjoy toying with the buffoon, but the man was in office over him, and-Great Gods Above!

And, very suddenly-as ice raced down his spine and he felt himself breaking into a sweat-he greatly desired to be elsewhere in the palace, right then.

The ring on the next-to-smallest finger of his left hand had once belonged to the legendary Laspeera, and it had just awakened. For the very first time in all his years of wearing it.

He tried not to stare at its warning glow-silent, but so vivid and so sudden-then turned it on his finger to hide that radiance inside his closed hand, and cursed silently. Its warning meant someone had opened the royal crypt from the outside-but he dared not go to see who just then, with the steward literally jawing in his face, thundering order after order at him.

My, but Hallowdant was in fine form for that time of a morning. An hour at which he was usually nowhere to be seen. Lothrae tried to console himself with the thought that one of the royals must have given him a real blast, to put him in such a state and have him up and about so early … but that musing utterly failed to improve his own mood.

“-and another thing! The candles in the balcony sconces in Anglond’s Great Hall are half-burnt and need replacing! Now, before the council is upon us and we’re too busy to remember them, but need their light to fail not!”

“Ah, yes, Lord High Steward,” he agreed hastily, starting to hasten along the hallway. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to it and report right back to you for more instructions-”

“Stand where you are, man!” the palace steward stormed. “You’ll stay still, right here, and listen! I haven’t finished yet!”

“Lord Hallowdant, please,” Lothrae tried again. “I really must relieve myself-”

Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant could radiate towering disgust just as devastatingly as the very best noble matriarchs; it was one of his best talents. Wordlessly he pointed over Lothrae’s shoulder.

At the door of a jakes that was literally four paces away.

It was not one of the few that had secret panels in its rear wall, either, curse the luck.

Lothrae sighed, resigned himself to perhaps never knowing who’d opened the crypt, and took his feigned need to empty his bladder into the jakes.

As the door swung closed behind him, the ring on his finger quivered and shone even more brightly, and he discovered, all of a sudden, that he truly did need to relieve himself. Badly.

In one of her favorite rooms of the palace-the nursery with the high round window she’d always loved watching the moon through-what was left of Alusair Obarskyr felt the activation of the rune, nine or so floors beneath her.

Not to mention the stirring of someone who had long been silent.

“One of Vangey’s old locking runes!” she hissed, alarmed and excited-and rushed through the palace like a ghostly wind, racing to the spot.

The ring’s brief blue glow faded, leaving Storm Silverhand blinking in the chill darkness.

Ah, royal crypts are such cozy places. Suzail’s was no exception. Still, it was one spot in a palace that, elsewhere, must resemble an agitated anthill about then, where she shouldn’t have to worry about being interrupted while-

There came a faint clank and rasping of sliding metal about four paces in front of her-and then the louder sound of a heavy stone door grating open. In the dim rectangle of resulting light, Storm found herself staring at a menacing figure in full armor.

Who stumbled toward her with a muffled curse, fumbling with its skirting plates.

Thankfully, that pleasantry was uttered in a voice she recognized.