Realms of infamy

such foes. Why should we quail? The least of our guards can destroy these Zhentarim.'

'Aye,' another rumbled amid murmurs of agreement. 'Let the graybeards in council yap and snap all the day long! I see naught to threaten Zhentil Keep or to prevent our coins piling up. The council responds whenever those dolts in Mulmaster dare another challenge, or a Thayan wizard deludes himself into thinking he's mighty enough to rule us. On most days, the council simply keeps our fathers and the rest of the dotards busy — and keeps their noses out of our affairs!'

'And just how many affairs have you had, Thaerun?' one noble asked slyly.

'Aye, this tenday?' someone added through the general mirth.

Chess frowned. 'Have you no care for the snakes in our midst? Agents of Thay, of the Dragon Cult- even of Sembia and Calimshan- are unmasked every month! Their dagger points are always closer than you credit.'

'Ah,' Thaerun said, leaning forward to tap the table in triumphant emphasis. 'That's the point, Chess. They are unmasked — by the watchful wizards Manshoon commands, and by Fzoul's tame priests. That's why we tolerate these haughty longrobes in the first place! They watch our backs so we can get on with the business of getting rich!'

'And wenching,' someone murmured.

'Drinking,' another added. 'What is this chamberpot-spill, anyway, Chess?'

'The finest Mulhorandan vintage,' Chess said dryly. 'Not that you'd recognize it, Naerh.'

Naerh spat on the table. 'That for your pretensions! My family's as old as yours!'

'And as debauched,' Thaerun murmured.

Chess smiled thinly. 'You do well to enjoy your ease while you can, Lords. Tis a precious luxury, lost if just one of our foes decides to make war on us.'

Thaerun leaned forward again, his eyes cold. 'I do enjoy it… and I shall. Every luxury has its price-but our ease costs us only the blood of a few fool altar-kneelers and hireswords from time to time. That's a fee I'll pay willingly. Save your veiled threats. The Blackryn name is a proud one-and one I'm always ready to defend.' Twinkling points of light burst forth around his hand. They coalesced into an ornate scepter whose tip pulsed and glowed.

A noble sighed. 'Oh, put it away, Thaerun! You're always trying to prove how battle-bold you are, and showing instead your utter lack of subtlety. We've all got one or more of those! You think yourself the only one in Zhentil Keep with wits enough to carry magic, when we must all hang our blades by the door at feasts?'

Another noble scratched the untidy beginnings of a beard and added, 'Aye, and if you ever use it, Blackryn, 'tis the blood of one of us that'll spill. Then the bloodfeuds'll begin again. That is too high a price for the liking of the council. They'd probably put you in beast-shape to spend your days as a patrol-hound north of Glister… for the few days before you met death.'

He leaned forward, uncrossing glossy-booted legs, and added, 'Enough hard words. More wine, Chess, and tell me of the maid with green hair you were with last eve! I'd not laid eyes on her before. Where've you been hiding her?'

Chess smiled as a silver tray bristling with bottles and decanters rose from the polished wood in front of him and floated slowly down the table. 'Yes, her hair was green last night. The Shadowsil, she's called. One of Manshoon's mages-so don't even think of wenching her, Eldarr. She could slay us all with one wave of her hand.'

'And that, Thaerun,' Naerh said dryly, 'would also be too high a price for your liking!'

A well-fed man in robes of the latest slashed, counter-folded Calishite finery spoke for the first time that night. 'I have been long away,' he said, 'but word has spread far of the Zhentarim: dark wizards, ruthless mage- slayers who gather ever more mighty magic. I would know more. Tell me plainly: what befalls in our city? What lies ahead that you fear? '

Lord Chess sipped at his wine. 'Manshoon, leader of these Zhentarim, has become first lord of the council. He I plans to do much more than chair the debates of squabbling merchants. He speaks of Zhentil Keep as 'his,' as if he were king over it!'

More than one noble laughed in derisive dismissal, but Chess held up a quelling hand. 'Manshoon is a mage of power. He's gathered wizards great and small who think as he does. He's slain or driven out many of the mages who might oppose him. These Zhentarim work together. Think on that, my lords, and consider how you'd fare if twenty came to your feast, drank less than they pretended, then attacked you with spells!'

There were dark murmurs. Chess looked around grimly. 'Worms you may think them, but they can slay us all. Have you not noticed how many of our great lords-even our last battlelord-are ill and keep to their beds? Old age, aye… But what if they're being helped to their graves? Before you scoff, consider: spells may not slip past all the expensive wards and amulets we wear, but there are other ways. I know Manshoon well. We grew up together. He is a master of slow, wasting poisons that deal gradual death and raise no alarm. He killed his parents thus, to gain their gold.'

Chess set down his goblet, and his voice grew more urgent. 'Each day the Zhentarim grow more haughty. I fear they'll seize power soon, using spells to sway the council. Manshoon must act before the council approves the opening of the wizard-school that the Beldenstones are sponsoring, which will draw independent mages by the score to our city. And final approval for that is to come when the council next meets.'

'Aghh! Enough of this fear-talk!' Thaerun snarled. 'We've heard you spout this before, Chess! How can any wizard- even a band acting together-break the spell-shields and the priests' scrutiny? Those blackrobes grow rich by keeping all of us striving against each other. Priests don't like rivals! They'll slap these Zhentarim into the dust as soon as the mages dare to act openly!'

'Think you so?' Lord Chess leaned forward. 'What if I told you Manshoon meets often with the most powerful of the priests? Aye: Fzoul, the master of the Black Altar, himself.'

Shocked silence fell, and Chess added with more calmness than he felt, 'It is the 'impartial' priests' vigilance that keeps council meetings free of spell-deceit. Mayhap that is only a fancy-tale.' He reached for his goblet again, bejeweled fingers trembling.

'There's more, isn't there?' Naerh asked, eyes on his host's face.

Lord Chess nodded. 'Taersel tells me Manshoon meets with someone more powerful in magic than he- someone he keeps secret from High Priest Fzoul. You've heard rumors of beholders prowling the city by night…'

He looked around at the silent, pale faces. 'Now are you afraid, my lords?' He drained his goblet and added, 'As the next council meeting is on the morrow, it may be too late to do anything but be afraid.'

The beholder bit down. Blood spattered, and a suddenly headless body twisted and flopped like a landed fish.

Lord Rorst Amandon, battlelord of Zhentil Keep, passed a hand over his scrying crystal. The bloody scene faded.

'So passes Lord Hael's hope,' he murmured. 'Hardly a surprise-and probably not the only uninvited visitors to Manshoon's Tower who'll meet their gods this night. Such feeble attacks won't stop the Zhentarim now. Still… Hael's thieves got farther than I'd expected.'

The old lord's hand trembled as he reached for a decanter beside the bed. As always, Etreth was there to put a drink into the palsied grip.

Possession of a scrying crystal that could pierce spell-shields meant death if either the city's priests or wizards learned of it-but Lord Amandon was past caring. He lay on his deathbed, and knew it. By the time Manshoon's poison had been detected, its ravages had gone too far in his aged body for magic to mend. The most expensive sages knew no antidote, once the poison took hold. The first lord had been thorough. Enough, at least, to slay Lord Amandon.

The old warrior looked wearily around his bedchamber, gazing at his favorite broadsword and the portrait of his wife, dead and gone these seven years. He might join her before morning, whatever befell the mad wizard's schemes.

'I… can wait no longer, Etreth,' he muttered. 'My body fails. I can barely drink without your aid, now.'

Looking up, he saw bright, unshed tears in his loyal servant's eyes. Rorst turned his head away, moved.