the Fragrant Flower of House Delcastle through.
Into a gloomy, high-ceilinged audience chamber of black-painted paneling adorned with strange-looking symbols Arclath strongly suspected were for show, having no real meaning or use at all.
Unless, that is, they were examples of the recent fashion among archwizards to enspell drawings or painted runes. Magic unleashed at a touch, or if the drawn device was damaged.
Yes, that was likely, wasn’t it?
The room held a simple black table, with two chairs facing each other down its sleek length.
Arclath made no move to go near them but strolled slowly around the room, peering at the runes and glyphs-or impressive-looking, mock-mystical nonsense symbols, if that’s what they were-as he passed. No other door was visible in the room except the one that had been firmly closed behind him, but of course any of these panels might open. Or the floor or ceiling, both of which had their own symbols. Their faint glows were the only lights in the room.
Arclath strolled, and no one came.
On his third slow circuit of the room, he thought one of the symbols had changed behind his back to a new configuration, but he could not be certain.
Impressive. Or trying hard to be.
Time stretched. Arclath waited alone in the dusty silence for an audience that, it started to seem as unmeasured time unfolded, might not befall until morning.
Upon reflection, he found that this bothered him not at all. Here, deep in this fortresslike mansion that shouted out the fell arcane power of its owner everywhere one looked, he was-or at least felt-safe from Elminster and Storm, Glathra and all her wizards of war, Stormserpent’s blueflame ghosts, the third ghost and whoever was controlling it, and all other mages ambitious nobles might hire.
As a wizard for hire, Larak Dardulkyn had a reputation for being both coldly impolite and very expensive, so if Arclath was going to succeed in enlisting his services against Elminster, to keep Amarune-and his own mind, too-safe, he had best be patient and polite.
Idly he tried to figure out what he could of the layout of this floor of the mansion. He was probably slightly more than the height of a tall man above the streets that surrounded the place on three sides, judging by the number of steps he’d ascended to the front door, and… well, unless the tales about wizard’s houses being larger inside than they were on the outside were true, he’d walked pretty much clear across the width of the building. There should be a street on the far side of that wall.
This had once been old Raskival Rhendever’s house-a crabbed old merchant Arclath could just remember from his youth, a hunched-over man with two canes. Before that it had belonged to Lord Sarlival, last of his line, who’d kept a mistress there with the full knowledge-and abiding fury-of his wife. Or so the tales Soundlessly one of the panels opened, and a tall, rather homely man with unpleasantly glittering black eyes stepped into the room, his high-collared black robes swirling.
Ah, yes. Menacing archwizard; must look the part.
“Lord Delcastle,” Dardulkyn said coldly. “What do you want?”
“To hire you to protect me and another person I am fond of from a mage who wants to control our minds.”
Dardulkyn raised one eyebrow and indicated one of the chairs with an abrupt thrust of his hand. “Sit.”
Only after they were both seated did he ask, “Who is this mage you believe imperils you?”
“He’s… Elminster. Elminster of Shadowdale. The Elminster.”
Dardulkyn snorted, sending an icy look down the table. “Lord Delcastle, you’ll have to do better than that.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
No,” Arclath said patiently, “I am neither mad nor-I believe-mistaken. I do mean Elminster.”
“Did he call himself that?”
“He did, and others did, too. Including the Lady Glathra, a silver-haired woman who calls herself Storm Silverhand and certainly looks like the Storm Silverhand of legend, and-”
Dardulkyn waved a dismissive hand. “Tall, imperious or rude, strikingly beautiful, long silver hair that moves by itself? I can make you look like that, or myself, for that matter, with a simple spell. You have been deceived, young lord. Threats to invade the mind are usually just that: threats. The magic is simple enough, but there are dangers to the caster that far outweigh any benefits. Competent workers of Art don’t splash in such waters.”
“Saer Dardulkyn,” Arclath said carefully, “I find myself not caring much if I am imperiled by an incompetent madwits or a competent archmage of peerless power. I have heard his voice come out of my beloved’s throat, have had conversations with him-her, that is, but with him in her head-that I could not have had with… my lady were he not present, and he has pressed me to let him into my mind. After what I’ve seen and heard, I know he can do this, whether he is truly Elminster or not. I also care not if he’s taken the name Elminster to impress me or half Faerun-it’s what I’ve seen him do that impresses me, not the name he uses.”
Dardulkyn leaned forward. “And just what have you seen him do?”
“Well,” Arclath began, “I… uh…”
Dardulkyn made a grimace that might have been meant as a smile. “Precisely. Lord Delcastle, it seems to me that you are wasting my time. Yet, you are determined to try to hire me?”
Arclath sighed. “Yes. I must say you hardly seem eager to take my coin!”
“I’m not.” Dardulkyn turned one of the rings adorning his fingers, and there was a sudden singing in the air between them. “Come no closer to me, or you will be harmed.”
“What? Saer mage, I assure you-”
“No, Lord Delcastle, I will assure you of something, now. You are my prisoner and will remain so until it suits my purposes to let you go.”
“Whaaat?”
Arclath sprang to his feet, the chair toppling, and snatched out his sword.
“Behold the usual response of arrogant nobility to anything they dislike. Hence the shielding magic I just raised.”
“But-but why are you doing this? Are you in league with Elminster?”
“There is no such person, anymore. The real Elminster is long dead, with his goddess. Oh, there may well be any number of lackspell charlatans using that name, trusting in the Elminster of legend to frighten those they fleece. I’m not interested in such buffoons. I am, however, interested in you, Lord Delcastle.”
“Why?” Arclath snapped. “Am I an attractive prisoner?”
Dardulkyn tapped his fingertips together thoughtfully as a small, wintry smile rose onto his face. It hovered there for a moment, as if uncomfortable to find itself in such an unaccustomed spot, and swiftly faded away again.
“Not in yourself, no. Don’t flatter yourself, Delcastle-though I know most of you younger lordlings do nothing else.”
The wizard rose and strolled across the room. Arclath felt a sudden pressure in front of him, shoving him back. Dardulkyn’s shield moved with its caster.
“No,” the wizard drawled, gazing idly around at the symbols painted on the black walls, “I believe you are the leading envoy of one more faction of scheming nobles, of the various factions circling like vultures around the fading days of old Foril’s reign. This ‘Elminster’ business is just your less-than-candid way of hiring me and so binding my services to your faction. Which in turn means you can be a valuable captive in any bargains I may need or want to make with your faction. If they deem you disposable, I’ll at least have weakened your little cabal by the resources of one member-a wealthy one, at that.”
“Wizard,” Arclath asked sharply, “are you mad?”
“All wizards are mad, nobleman. Or seem so to thick-skulled clods like yourself, who see the world as a
