anyone else to take an interest in the wealthy and powerful and the uses he could make of them.
Coming round the curve, she saw something that almost made her stop in surprise-and after a moment of hesitation, quicken her stride. The gates of Stormserpent Towers stood open.
Almost all of the grander mansions had high walls around their grounds to keep out thieves. Not to mention persistent hawkers or creditors and unwanted, garden-trampling gawkers. Those who had such expensive barriers tended to use them, especially by night. If a carriage or greatcoach wasn’t about to enter or depart, gates would be firmly closed and locked. To see an unsecured entrance and no servants standing watchfully by the opened gates was unusual.
No watch patrol behind her, and none to be seen ahead. There were no side streets near, and the unbroken line of mansion walls afforded no cover for a patrol-or anyone else-to lurk, ready to pounce.
So with head held high and shoulders back, Targrael strode right up to the gates and into the grounds of Stormserpent Towers, as if the gates had been left open for her.
Six strides in along the deserted, night-shrouded carriageway, the gem in her hand warmed slightly. Not the flare of active spells nor the steady rise in temperature that heralded the nearness of always-functioning wards, but a sharper, smaller kindling.
There was palace magic here! A small amount of it, but nearby and very recently arrived…
Targrael frowned. Then she took a step to the left. Yes. Turning, she crossed the width of the carriageway, onto the lawn to the right. No, fainter, so back to the left.
The house rose straight ahead, though of course the carriageway reached it in a series of long, graceful curves. Off to the left, just past this stand of duskwoods, was… the stables.
Targrael went into a crouch and turned sharply to the left, departing the carriageway for a stretch of lawn that would let her go around behind the duskwood bower, to reach the stables from the side or rear.
If a watch patrol or any inquisitive war wizards were lurking in the stables, she wanted to see them before they saw her.
Once behind the trees and closer to the stables-which loomed up dark, silent, and seemingly deserted-the gem in her hand grew warmer with every step she took.
Could Elminster be up to his old tricks, thieving palace magic? Or was this his cache of stolen enchantments? A walled noble compound wasn’t the hiding place she would have chosen, but perhaps he intended that if his loot was discovered, the Stormserpents would be blamed.
For years he’d posed as old Elgorn Rhauligan, working at the palace with his sister-Storm Silverhand, his fellow refugee from the service of fallen Mystra. They were still working together, weren’t they?
Aside from a few scurrying mice, the stables were deserted. The gem led Targrael straight to a small sack of rings and wands. Sleep wands, except for one that blasted and one that spat sticky webs. War wizard issue.
So unless a cabal of Crown mages was plotting something, these were stolen.
Most likely by Elminster and Storm, or some Stormserpent servant. Not by Marlin Stormserpent; that one would take them inside his walls and hide them somewhere in the mansion he thought was secure, behind all its wards and shieldings.
Frowning, Targrael put the sack back as she’d found it, covered it again with the long-decayed awning, and stood pondering. Should she seek Storm Silverhand around Suzail? Lush of figure, beautiful, and with that long silver hair, it was more likely a man would notice her than either Elminster or Manshoon-particularly if those wise old mages didn’t want to be noticed.
Should she try to find such noticing persons and question them?
Or do the wiser thing, return to the palace, hide, and work on her patience?
“Bah!” she told the night loudly, turning on her heel.
The wiser, patient thing for once.
Huh. Undead or not, death knight or no, she must be getting old.
Manshoon slid eagerly back into his darkly handsome human body. Beholderkin were fine, better than drifting along ghostlike as vampires could, but he liked to be solid and in the sort of body he’d been born with, when it came time for serious thinking.
It was time right now, here in the cellar of the alchemist. A squalid place by some reckonings, and he’d certainly known more luxurious surroundings-he still missed the soaring gloom of his Tower High back in Zhentil Keep, even after all these years-but increasingly it was starting to feel like home.
His scrying globes glowed patiently as he sat up, ran his gaze over them all to make sure nothing really alarming was unfolding anywhere-nothing was-and sat back to ponder.
So his old foe was alive, or perhaps undead. Elminster was back in Suzail, back with Storm Silverhand. Not destroyed, after all.
And not, so far as he could tell, preparing to smite one Manshoon.
Which was odd; if Elminster had slain one of his clones and the next had awakened, it would do as he’d so often done-found some way to hit back, hard. Swiftly, too.
Not so boldly as to sacrifice yet another of his selves, but to make it very clear to Elminster that he hadn’t been vanquished and was back undeterred.
So what, then, was Elminster now up to?
Well, meddling, of course. ’Twas what the Old Fool did. Trying to rule thrones from behind them, sway this lord into giving him food and a bed while he stole magic and coins from that lord, or in this case the royal family of Cormyr. Stay close to the rich and powerful, whisper in their ears, get them to do what he wanted them to do-just as he’d been doing for centuries.
Manshoon knew the lure of power himself. It was the elixir; there was nothing stronger.
Yet, he’d done it all himself, not ridden the skirts of Mystra the Mighty, never stolen into the heart-and bed- of a goddess to shelter in the warmth of her smile and fondness. He’d earned his might, where sly old Elminster had wormed it out of a doting goddess. Oh, that worming had worked, all right, and who could have foreseen that the great goddess of All Art, Our Lady of Mystery, the goddess, would fall?
Of greater importance now was this: with the Weave to call on at will, and all Mystra’s servitors and other Chosen to use and abuse, Elminster had become lazy in his own Art. Had spent years doing this and doing that, for Mystra and for himself, but seldom honing greater Art, mastering more magic.
So the great Sage of Shadowdale, alone now with all his friends and easy power gone, was behind and beneath Manshoon the truly mighty.
Be he Orbakh of Westgate or Manshoon of the Zhentarim before that, he himself had worked the greater Art and had improved his skills through his own work, not by godly gifts or reliance on abundant ready aid. He was the better mage, the true archwizard.
Which in turn inevitably meant Elminster, the sly but lazy, could but follow in Art where Manshoon had led.
Was Elminster not seeking to steal all the magic he could? Oh, to feed his mad, chained-somewhere lover, yes, but did he not examine each enchanted item he took, to learn all he could before he took it to her?
So, while Emperor-to-be Manshoon rode the minds of all he chose, Elminster must be a step behind, doing what Manshoon had formerly done. Using many selves, clones awakened when their predecessors were destroyed.
Yes, that was it. Must be…
He had killed Elminster, had destroyed him. Burst right through his body, dismembered him, then burned him to ashes.
Accomplishing all of that quickly, leaving his foe unattended for not even an instant, all the while watching hard for the slightest sign of any escape. There had been none at all.
So somewhere, as Elminster had died, Elminster’s next clone had awakened. Fearing to face death again at the hands of the one who’d so effortlessly slain him, he’d used magic to disguise himself as a young lass-the mask dancer who was his own descendant-and no doubt forced the real Amarune Whitewave into stasis, in some hidden cave or crypt, to await his future need.
Which would come when he mastered the Art of riding the minds of others, as Manshoon could now do, and took over his descendant’s younger, stronger body for good.
In the meantime, there must be other clones of Elminster, hidden deep in Suzail.
