The two young guards heard the slight noise that the secret door made as it swung open and then instantly shut again, but by the time they reached the shadow, there was nothing to be seen but an empty stone passage. They hunted around for a bit-there had been a noise, both agreed-and looked warily upward. When they thankfully saw nothing waiting to fall on them, they shrugged and went away.
By then, Xanther had slain Stormcloak's old, stupid watchspider with the heavy stone block he'd thoughtfully procured earlier, and taken the scrolls he knew it guarded. Their capped tubes rattled, and he shook a large gem out of one with great satisfaction. The other yielded a fine chain linking three plain brass finger rings, and a dagger whose quillons were a pair of batlike, furry folded wings, dusty gray and looking very much alive. He was careful not to touch it bare-handed and so activate it.
Xanther packed all this revealed magical treasure back into the tubes that had held it. Then he hurried on, descending through dark, secret passages scarcely wider than his own hips, heading for the cellars. Heading toward the dark, waiting cesspool where he knew Elminster of Shadowdale and the wench Sharantyr would come… to meet their deaths.
For the greater glory of the Brotherhood. Xanther smiled a smile that held no humor and slipped on through the darkness.
'The gate lies just here,' Elminster said, pointing in the fetid darkness.
'Without light, I can't see a thing,' Sharantyr said crossly, 'but from the smell, I can tell that we're very near the edge of the pool. Watch where you step.'
Elminster felt for her hand, seized it in his own, and squeezed reassuringly. 'That's the beauty of it, d'ye see? Kneel down here, beside me, and feel.'
His hand led hers to trace cold stone. The stink around them was indescribable. Elminster continued an unconcerned lecture. 'One enters the gate by stepping out over the pool, off the edge as if one were stepping right into it. One has to start here, though, just between these two raised stones, or the step forward is into empty air and ends as a fast plunge into the muck.'
Sharantyr let him guide her hand to two stony knobs. 'Do you mean we're kneeling right on the edge of it now?'
'Aye. An exposed position, indeed,' Elminster replied. 'Let us up and proceed, without further delay. Hold tight to my hand.'
'Old Mage,' Sharantyr said calmly, 'I'm doing so. I've got a very good grip on you, in fact, and I'll yank you beard-over-ankles into this cesspool right now if you don't tell me just where this gate you're so eager to use will take us, before we step so boldly through it!'
Elminster sighed. 'Ye want all the Zhentarim in this place-and those who serve Sembia, Cormyr, the Red Wizards of Thay, and the Cult of the Dragon, besides-to find us here, don't ye? I may know a few tricks and carry a few magic trinkets, but if ye'd see my skin stay whole and my thousand-odd years stretch to a few more, ye'd not force me to fight off every eager hedge-wizard and sharpknife in this dale!' He turned and glared at her as he spoke. The lady ranger felt the burning weight of his unseen eyes on her in the darkness.
'Old Mage,' Sharantyr said firmly, 'just tell and we can be on our way, provided it's not to a certain plane of fire and evil, or the center of the Grand Hall in Darkhold, or another such lunatic destination. I'd like to know what I'll have to fight before I get wherever we're going.'
Elminster tried to pull away. Her grip shook with weariness but held him like iron as she added, 'And since you threatened me with all those names, suppose you also tell me just who, in this mountain dale so crammed with Zhentarim wizards, serves Thay, the Cult, Sembia, and Cormyr.'
The Old Mage sighed. 'The councillors, Shar. Among them are men still loyal to the dale, a handful who bow to Manshoon-all the newer members, no doubt-and those who were there before Longspear's takeover, seeing to the interests of those others in secret. Trust me. When my Art served me, I spied on many a secret meeting and took note of many, many faces. Most of the High Dale's councillors are more than they seem to be.'
'And we're slipping away and leaving Irreph to that?' Sharantyr blazed at him. 'All of them tired and hurt- Ylyndaera, Ulraea, Gedaern, and all the rest? Is your heart a stone, Old Mage? A gravestone for them all, perhaps?'
'Easy, lass, easy,' Elminster rumbled. 'Didn't we rid them of enough Zhent mages to rule a small dale, between us? While ye were so busy glaring at Xanther-the weak-willed one who wanted my wand; unless my nose has lost all smell, he's a Zhent sneak-at the table this even, I gave both Gedaern and Irreph identical lists of what cause each councillor serves, at least so far as I knew. Gedaern read it then and there, I know. I saw him go out, and later he came back and told me a name.'
Sharantyr frowned. 'I remember that. 'Blakkal' or something, he said to you, just when the Zhent councillor got up to leave. I didn't know what he meant.'
'Aye,' Elminster said to her in the darkness. 'The leather worker. He served the Cult of the Dragon until Gedaern saw to him.' He sighed again. 'I doubt Gedaern will let Xanther live to see another sunrise, even if Mulmar leaves reading my note until then.'
'Why wouldn't he read it?'
Elminster gave her a look that she could not see, but felt. 'Everyone of the dale wanting to talk to him, his daughter clinging to him and in tears every second breath, and the first proper meal he's had for a long time-with too much to drink, I don't doubt. It would also come as no surprise to me to learn he's abed with Ireavyn right now.'
It was Sharantyr's time to sigh. 'True enough. I don't suppose the Zhent councillors will amount to much. With all the wizards Manshoon already had strutting around the dale to back up their usurper, he wouldn't have needed great warriors or mages, only good spies. And I can't think agents of Cormyr and Sembia are much to be feared, given that each country will counter any moves to gain control that the other makes. But you spoke of Thay. You're going to leave a Red Wizard running loose here?'
'Hardly that,' Elminster told her. 'He's a wizard, aye, but rather a decent sort and much too careful to reveal himself. When they come for him, of course, it'll be too late for him to do more than run. He's the local weaver, a fat, kindly little man by the name of Jatham Villore. I feel somewhat in his debt. Someone cloaked the Zhents' searching spells as we and the two Harper lads were gallivanting around the dale, and I rather think it was him.'
'Why?'
'Will ye never run out of questions, girl? To shake the rule of the Zhentarim here, of course.' Elminster cleared his throat. 'We looked into each other's eyes, in the great hall just now, and if hundreds of years of measuring folk with my eyes has taught me anything, he's not quick to slay with his Art, that one.'
Sharantyr reached out in the darkness, found his beard-it felt like the soft bristles at the base of a horse's tail-and patted his cheek. 'Well enough,' she said. 'You've done what you could for the dale. So tell me, where are we going?'
She heard the grin in Elminster's voice. 'By Mystra, lass, but ye're a keen, feisty blade! Well, then, this gate should take us to another castle-much grander than this one, but in ruins-in the Fallen Lands.'
'Clear across Anauroch? How will we get back?'
'One disaster at a time, lass. Come.' The Old Mage tugged at her hand, and Sharantyr allowed him to pull her to her feet. The stinking darkness swirled around them like soiled velvet, disturbed by their movement. Sharantyr nearly choked.
'What castle?' she managed to ask, feeling for the hilt of her sword.
'Spellgard they call it now. Long ago, when it belonged to a friend of mine, it had another name.'
'What happened?' Sharantyr asked, but Elminster towed her forward with surprising strength, and the words that began above the cesspool of the High Castle ended in a cold, shadowed hall lit by glowing mosses.
Dark archways gaped in the walls around them, and more moss hung from stone balconies above. The floor was an uneven tumble of disturbed marble, its smooth paving broken upward as if a giant had punched it repeatedly from beneath.
Cold breezes blew around their ankles, coming from somewhere unseen, and there was no sign of life. Dust hung thick in the air, and there were no furnishings to be seen except stone seats carved into the walls in little curl-ornamented niches.
Elminster was nodding in recognition. 'Spellgard?' Sharantyr asked, to hear more about it rather than to
