Right after he checked on the ghost-commanding noble he was already familiar with, to make sure Stormserpent still had his life, freedom, and possession of the Flying Blade and the Wyverntongue Chalice.
So it was that the largest room of Sraunter’s cellar was flooded with the eerie glows of freshly conjured scrying eyes, and a darkly handsome future emperor was strolling among the floating, glowing, spherical scenes, peering hard.
The Promenade in front of the palace was seething. Someone-was that Dathcloake? — was trying to get back into the palace within a moving wedge of his bodyguards, and learning that Purple Dragons not only could not be ordered, blustered, threatened, or shoved out of the way, but that they had procured crossbows from the armories and were sternly threatening to use them if the coldly furious lord didn’t cease his attempts to storm the palace and didn’t return to his lodgings, peacefully and promptly.
It was tempting to tarry and watch that fun unfold, but the death of Elminster didn’t mean this particular incipient emperor was entirely without foes…
In this darker sphere, one scene demanded his immediate attention: Lord Marlin Stormserpent was badly scared and pacing in an upper bedchamber of Stormserpent Towers, not knowing where to run, or how. Clearly visible out the room’s window were the Crown’s hounds, coming for him: half a dozen wizards of war with two dozen Purple Dragons, most in full armor, and a few of their fellows wearing lesser war-harnesses, but bearing crossbows.
The Flying Blade scabbarded at his belt and the Wyverntongue Chalice clutched to his chest, a sweating Stormserpent mumbled fearful possibilities to himself.
His two ghosts could easily slaughter mere Dragons-but six wizards, now, could likely deal with his blueflame slayers in a trice. Teleporting the ghosts halfway across Cormyr rather than destroying them would still seal Marlin Stormserpent’s doom.
Wizards of war without their lord warder or some cool-headed Highknights or a battle-axe like the Lady Glathra to lead them were proving to be cautious, prudent men. The Crown force was still carefully encircling the walls of Stormserpent Towers, not yet ready to thunder upon the doors of the Stormserpent mansion and demand entry-let alone force it.
That gave Manshoon all the time he needed.
He turned. The alchemist sat uncertainly on a barrel amid heaped packing crates and coffers along one wall of his cellar, watching Manshoon-who obligingly gave Sraunter his best softly menacing smile.
“Faithful alchemist, fetch whatever you need that can make enough poisonous smoke to quickly fill Stormserpent Towers. That ‘whatever’ should be something you can easily carry, that you can have back down here less than ten breaths from now.”
Sraunter gaped at him, so Manshoon added cheerfully, “Hurry. Or I’ll spend your eleventh breath summoning enough boring worms to eat your body apart while you lie watching them, paralyzed and screaming.”
The alchemist swallowed.
“Go,” Manshoon prompted him gently-and with a speed hitherto unseen in Immaero Sraunter, the alchemist sprinted up the cellar stairs.
Manshoon chuckled and sent the unleashed beholderkin soaring after the man, to keep an eye on him.
Vampire lords might not need to breathe, but explosions and acids could hurt them well enough… and do harm to what was filling the third room of the alchemist’s cellar.
The beholders he’d be needing very soon.
CHAPTER TWELVE
M irt sat himself down on the window seat, in the smooth-worn dip in the stone where thousands of predecessors had done the very same thing, and peered out over the bright, awakening spring splendors of the royal gardens. He was… happy.
He now knew where the treasuries were, the main kitchens and the royal ones, several bedchambers no one ever seemed to check on, the cheese and sausage pantries, and where the duty warder who always dozed off hung his spare keys.
He’d located a better dagger than he’d ever owned in all his life-safely stored away where it had lain, wrapped in oiled cloth to keep the rust off, for years. So, it wouldn’t be missed. Nor would the rusty little sphere stored in the same drawer, twin to one he’d once used in Waterdeep Castle, used to bind a creature. A handy little magic, that; it would ride happily with him when the time came to take himself elsewhere.
He even knew where to get his next roast, after the smoked leg of lamb he’d purloined and was now devouring bite by greasy bite was gone.
The fat, old lord let out a loud, ripping belch, settled down across the window and propped his dusty booted feet against the far side of the window frame, patted his stomach, and sat back to devote himself to making it more rotund.
All in all, he was quite content. This wasn’t home, but it was a palace. Its servants a little on both the tense and pompous sides for his tastes, but “Mirt? Mirt of Waterdeep?”
The voice was a woman’s, sharp and imperious. Holding not the slightest hint of friendliness.
Mirt sighed, hefting the lamb in his fist to see how well it might serve him as a club. Or perhaps a hurl- cudgel, if it came to that. He put a smile on his face before turning from the pleasant garden view. “Aye?”
He hadn’t expected his questioner to be alone, and she wasn’t. Carefully arranged to block off any escape was a small crowd of folk, all staring at him.
Foremost stood a woman in plain, dark, wizardly robes, feet planted apart and hands on hips. Huh. One of those.
She had a pair of mages a step behind each shoulder-subservient to her, all four of them-bookended by a dozen-some armored and impassive Purple Dragons, armed with spears as well as all the usual warsteel.
“I am Lady Glathra, a wizard of war here in Cormyr. I do not recall you ever being invited within these walls as a guest of the realm, saer, and I have a few questions for you.”
Mirt waved the leg of lamb at her. “Ah, good. I’ve some for ye, too.” He took another bite.
“I’ve been told you are a famous man, a lord of your city. I’ve also been told that you… flourished, if that’s the right word, about a century ago.”
Mirt chewed calmly, offering no comment. Glathra sighed.
“Is this true?”
Mirt nodded unconcernedly and took another bite.
Some of the guards grinned openly, behind the lady wizard’s back. By the expression on her face, she could feel those grins. Mirt went on chewing.
“So, you are over a century old?” Glathra put a biting edge of incredulity on that question.
Mirt nodded again.
“So, how came you to live so long? And how is it that a Lord of Waterdeep appears in the royal palace of Suzail?”
Mirt swallowed, raised the lamb like a scholar’s finger, wagged it, and gave her a broad and greasy grin. “Magic.”
Glathra was unamused. “Whose magic?”
Mirt shrugged. “I’m no loremaster when it comes to the Art, lass, but the jack who brought me here by some spell or other was an insolent young pup by the name of Marlin Stormserpent. Lord Marlin Stormserpent, I’m told.”
“Told? Told by whom?”
“Quite a few folk. Two of yer fellow Crown mages among them.”
“And did he say anything at all about why he, ah, summoned you here?”
Mirt turned the leg, choosing the best spot for his next hearty bite. “Wanted a third flame ghost to go with
