He could grasp that much, no matter how dazed and shaking he was. Wiping sweat from his face and gulping to calm his panting, Mreldrake tried vainly to relax.
“You thought your work was done? Ah, but no, brave master of alchemy!”
Manshoon’s smile was gentle, but Sraunter broke into helpless shivering, chilled anew by sudden sheer terror. What now?
“We’ve merely begun,” Manshoon murmured, bursting into the alchemist’s mind before the man could even whimper. “We’re going for a little ride, you and I. You’ve done so well with the hay bales that you deserve good food and better drink, not to mention some laughter and a chance to restock your sadly depleted larder, in a score or more of the best-and worst-clubs, taverns, and shops across this fair city. Places in which you’ll oh-so-slyly spread rumors of various wild and mysterious attacks upon the palace.”
“But-but I don’t know what to say!”
“Ah, as to that, lose all fear. I’ll guide your tongue, and I’ve done this a time or two before. Rulers must learn to hear and steer rumors, or they soon run out of time to learn anything at all.”
CHAPTER FIVE
A Purple Dragon horn call rose into the air.
“Gods, again?” The veteran Dragon lionar was running out of profanities. He spun away from the table of drunkards he’d been about to glower down at, and strode hastily back out of the tavern. His men, some of them groaning, followed him in a weary thunder of hurrying boots.
Manshoon drifted out of the shadows to watch them, not quite smiling. Tension had been rising in the city all day; skirmishes had erupted between various nobles’ bodyguards in clubs, taverns, and then the streets, and not long past highsun the “to arms” had been sounded, calling all Dragons out of barracks to establish order.
The Council of the Dragon had been proclaimed to begin not this day but on the morrow-and Suzail was not taking the news well.
Rumors were racing from table to table and along the alleys. Of course. Some had King Foril dead, and others swore a dozen nobles had been hunted down and butchered by royal command, though no two tales seemed to agree on just which lords had met their bloody ends. Still others said tombs in the royal crypt had burst open and the dead kings of Cormyr were stalking the palace, furious at Foril for even thinking of curtailing royal powers-and rending servants, courtiers, and wizards of war alike limb from limb in their displeasure.
Vangerdahast had returned from the grave, transformed into a horrid skull-headed monster, one particularly gruesome tale insisted, and was demanding noblewomen be brought to him “to breed a new line to warm the Dragon Throne.”
Manshoon had chuckled aloud at that one. It sounded so unlike that old fool Vangerdahast-and so much like something Elminster might have tried.
Yes, he was going to enjoy blaming things on Elminster. Why, he might be able to keep that useful line of besmirchment going for decades, and use it to cloak all manner of wayward butchery…
Not that he had overmuch time to spare for such pleasant musings just now. Not with half a dozen new blackhearted traitors to recruit from among the ambitious lesser nobility. The young Houses, those lowly highborn so hungry for more power that they’d do almost anything. They were here to gain anything they could and would listen to a certain sort of whispering.
A handful of them might be capable enough to prove useful, and Manshoon would seek out these few.
He smoothly thrust aside a curtain and stepped to the elbow of one of the useful few. “Lord Andolphyn?”
A sharp-featured man looked up with a doubtful frown from the splendid decanter he’d been about to unstopper, the twin daggers of his forked chin-beard glistening with the scented wax that kept them teased into two points. “Do I know you, sirrah? How did you get in here?”
“Your guards are… mere swordswingers, Naeryk. No match for a wizard of war.”
A gasp came from the men clustered around Andolphyn in this back tavern alcove, but Manshoon gave them all a soft smile and added, “And still less of a match for me.”
After a moment of uncertain silence, many of the men cast swift glances at their master, seeking guidance with hands hovering near blade hilts.
Lord Naeryk Andolphyn seemed to be having some sort of silent seizure; he’d gone stiffly upright in his chair and trembled violently, his eyes rolled up in his head. Then, quite suddenly, he’d relaxed. His face went smooth, his eyes reappeared, and a smile swam onto his face.
“At ease, all,” he said huskily. “I… remember this man. An old friend. A very old friend.”
Manshoon clapped the lord’s shoulder gently. “Until next time, then,” he murmured and slipped back through the curtain.
One mind invaded and conquered; one man now his. If all of them had such paltry magical protections, all six were going to be that easy. Yes, six should be enough-though it would be far too much to hope that six lordlings, even minor ones, would lack enough magic to prevent such unsubtle assaults.
Andolphyn down, Blacksilver not far ahead…
Smiling his gentle smile, Manshoon strolled on.
“You are here,” Wizard of War Glathra Barcantle said earnestly, leaning forward to stare into the faces of the handful of courtiers in the room, “because the Crown trusts you most deeply, and seeks your counsel.”
“Thank you, Glathra,” King Foril said quietly. “Very well put.”
The four courtiers facing the monarch and the lady wizard refrained from pointing out that the “most deep” trust just mentioned couldn’t be all that deep, given the two mountainous knights in full plate armor kneeling in front of the king, and the three stone-faced wizards of war standing behind him with powerful-looking magical scepters in their hands… but then, they were senior courtiers.
The palace steward was notably absent. In his place sat the palace understeward, Corleth Fentable. The head Highknight Eskrel Starbridge was also missing, gone from the city on a secret mission, but his immediate underling, the well-spoken clerk of vigilance, Sir Talonar Winter, was present in his stead. Next to Winter sat the old, gruff, and very capable Steward of the Regalia Langreth Ironhorn, his towering height and ample girth settled in the stoutest seat, the two sticks he tottered around on gathered into the crook of one of his massive arms. In the last seat, which she’d hitched a hand’s breadth or two away from the others, was Lady of Graces Jalessa Windstone, every bone of her a prim, disapproving perfectionist. Palace protocol was “her charge and her only child,” it was said about Windstone.
“You are here,” Glathra added, “because we are frantically trying to learn the identity of the traitor who introduced the deadly smoke into the Hall of Justice-or at least hit upon some way of finding out who that traitor is.” She watched Fentable’s gaze move to the three mages behind the king, and added quietly, “We are using all the spells we can think of, never fear. We are hoping one of you can think of some other means we might employ, to make sure that-”
Sir Winter gasped, shivered, and reeled in his seat.
Even before anyone could react, they all saw the cause. A ghostly, translucent figure had stepped through the wall behind Winter’s seat and then through the courtier himself to stand facing King Foril Obarskyr.
“Majesty,” she greeted him gravely, ignoring the swords the knights snatched out to thrust at her, “your traitor is Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake. He’s working with others, I believe, but the spells that brought the hay into the palace were his. He couldn’t resist bringing himself into the room to check, just for an instant, after sending in the third burning bale. I saw him.”
“Who are you?” Fentable snapped furiously-as the Lady of Graces fainted dead away and old Ironhorn leaned forward with a delighted chuckle.
The Princess Alusair favored the palace understeward with a look of scorn. “You know very well who I am, Fentable. We’ve seen each other often enough-and I’ve seen rather more of your doings than you’d like me to have witnessed, I’m sure.”
