with which his glass became empty, was refilled, and seemed to leak its contents yet again.
Sharantyr made the huge goblet Belkram had given her last the rest of the evening, and kept eyeing the merriment around her watchfully. If someone yet lived, particularly an archer or a wizard, who wanted the Old Mage dead, this joyful chaos would allow a very good chance to kill him
About the time she loosened her blade in its sheath and pulled away from where she was pressed against Elminster to get steel out should she need it, she felt the pressing regard of a hostile gaze.
Looking up quickly, she saw the burning eyes of a councillor across the table dropping swiftly away from her. Hawklike, Sharantyr watched him, her blade a finger out of its sheath.
A long time later, amid the laughter and song and weary dancing, the man's eyes flicked up again, almost involuntarily. Xanther. Aye, that was his name. One of those who'd been spared, thus far. His eyes flicked away again to stare at something, roved about the table, and returned to stare at the same something again.
She followed his hungry gaze as he leaned just a finger or so forward to better study whatever it was he was so intent on.
He was eyeing the wand lying on the table by Elminster's hand.
Another wizard? Sharantyr drew a deep breath and pondered what best to do.
Feeling the sudden weight of the lady ranger's gaze upon him, Xanther carefully didn't look up.
He could not fail to notice, however, the sudden gleam of naked steel as the lady ranger drew her long sword and meaningfully laid it ready on the table, its shining tip resting over the wand.
21
Black flames leapt up, casting angry red and amber shadows on the wall behind, but the man in black paid them no heed.
He'd seen them time upon time before, and had in fact chosen this spot for maximum effect. Blood-red dancing shadows outlined him as a tall and sinister figure of darkness-mighty, awesome, and dark. It pleased him to think of himself thus.
What use, after all, is great power if one cannot use it to indulge one's smallest conceits?
Wherefore Manshoon-Lord of the Zhentarim, Over-mage of the Dark Ring, The Hand of Darkness, and the holder of many other titles he was pleased to give himself from time to time-stood tall in his high-horned cloak, thigh-high boots, and silken tunic and breeches. He looked down on a keen-eyed mageling of the Brotherhood, a young, hawk-eyed youth whose eager ambition burned so hot that one could almost smell it, and smiled.
'Avaerl of Sembresh,' he asked softly and formally, 'would you serve the Brotherhood in ways greater than you have so far?'
'Yes, Lord Most High,' the wizard said quickly and proudly.
'Be not so swift to promise,' Manshoon almost purred. 'Others have tried and failed at the task I would set for you.'
'I shall not fail,' Avaerl said boldly.
Manshoon inclined his head and smiled. 'Good,' he said. 'Go then, and bring me the head of Elminster of Shadowdale.'
Avaerl's eager grin slipped, just for an instant, hung lopsided on his face in a perfect match of the ghastly smile worn by many a corpse, and then returned in full. It did not waver as he bowed his head and looked back up at Manshoon. 'Lord,' he promised, 'it shall be done. I will not fail.'
Manshoon bowed his head in dismissal. 'Your reward, then, will be very great. Go in power.'
Avaerl turned on his heel, robes swirling, and strode away down the path between two waiting lines of motionless armored forms. They turned in unison to face him as he passed, impassive visors down, but made no sound or other movement.
Avaerl carefully did not look at any of them. Their silent vigilance unsettled braver magelings than he. It was whispered among the lesser wizards of the Brotherhood that the suits of armor were empty, or appeared to be. Fell spirits, or worse magic, moved them to Manshoon's will. Helmed Horrors they were called.
When Avaerl stepped onto the spell-guarded stair that led away from Manshoon's cave-lair, the last two Horrors stepped forward behind him to ceremoniously cross curved, naked blades, barring passage along the silent gantlet the ambitious mageling had just walked.
Ascending steps that glowed vivid blue under his feet, Avaerl heard that whisper of metal kissing metal, and shivered involuntarily. The very sight of the uncanny Horrors chilled him, probably because the cold, deadly watchfulness of Manshoon himself moved them. It was a reminder-deliberate, without a doubt-of the awesome power of the Lord Most High of the Zhentarim.
Not for the first time, Avaerl thought himself crazy to even contemplate challenging Manshoon, some day, for lordship over the Brotherhood. Yet… with the power of Elminster, the Old Mage of Shadowdale, under his belt, bards would tell a different tale. He grinned as he saw himself blasting Manshoon to screaming bones, the Overmage's mind pleading for mercy as it faded away, the bones softening, sagging, and collapsing into wind- whirled dust before Avaerl's might.
Gulkuth, he reminded himself. Gulkuth. His key to making this mere dream into reality. It was a mage's truename, the key to mastery over the man, whoever it was. By where he'd found it, written in blood on a hidden altar, it belonged to a wizard alive today. A wizard who served Bane. A wizard of great power.
One of the Inner Ring of the Brotherhood, without doubt. But who? Or was it a trap laid by one or all of them against ambitious mages?
Avaerl dared not reveal that name until he had power enough to use it. That meant magic enough to overmatch Manshoon, for the name could very well be his.
If it was Manshoon's truename, and Avaerl held the knowledge and power of Elminster, the Lord Most High could not stand against him. The Zhentarim would know a new lord.
And then a small, cold voice deep inside him added, 'For a little while.' Avaerl shivered again as he reached the top of the stair.
As the blades came softly together at the far end of the gantlet, Manshoon beckoned with a long and lazy arm. One of the dark-robed and cruel-faced men who'd stood silent and motionless among the dark, fanglike stalagmites stepped smoothly forward.
'Zalarth, I have work for you.'
'I await your orders, my lord.'
Cold eyes met. Each stared into cold, falling depths in the soul of the other, and Manshoon said slowly, 'Follow that puppy and do what he will undoubtedly fail to do.'
'Me, my lord?' Zalarth asked, inclining his head at other, mightier mages who stood watching from the shadows.
Manshoon held his eyes. 'I trust you the more,' he said coldly, 'and believe your thinking in battle to be clearer. You shall succeed where he fails, and bring me Elminster's head… if you would rise in our councils.'
'May I use items, or the aid of others?'
'Use what you deem necessary.'
As Zalarth climbed the glowing stairs in his turn, faces swam in his memory-faces of thieves and trained killers of the Brotherhood. From those faces, the Zhentarim wizard chose the members of the band he would lead. Elminster would die. Manshoon had commanded the death; it was as good as done. The sentence would befall.
After too many hundreds of years, Elminster of Shadowdale would perish. Zalarth would seize his might and his magic. Zalarth would use them to rule. When bards, tavern drunks, and wizards whispered of high and mighty deeds in years to come, it would be Zalarth's name they would remember as the one who brought down Elminster of Shadowdale, not Manshoon's. Zalarth would see to that.
