the helmed horrors floating in a patient arc behind him, and order them-loudly and unnecessarily, for the benefit of the cordon of listening Dragons-to secure the damaged mansion and make very certain no intruder slipped inside.
The beholder body he’d arrived in was hidden in one of the upper rooms that still had a roof, accompanied by a patiently floating beholderkin he could use to return to Sraunter’s shop.
Reaching out to the minds of the two nearest horrors, he sent them to begin breaking open a shaft to let his beholder float down into Dardulkyn’s cellars.
Leaving the other horrors to defend the walls against every last rat, mouse, or bird that ventured near the riven mansion, he took Dardulkyn’s body on a tour of the cellars.
Pleasingly, the uppermost of those lower levels included one large chamber into which had been placed a row of cages fashioned of massive iron bars-cages as large as small huts. A thin, sickly looking griffon was trapped in one, the cage strewn with its shed feathers, but the rest were empty of all but some unpleasant-looking mounds of bones. Good. The beholder-and, once he got them here, its fellow tyrants-could be put into these monster cages.
He’d raise some strong wards around the place-Dardulkyn’s were pitiful-but for the benefit of the inevitable farscrying war wizards, some of whom were undoubtedly spying on him right now, he’d make sure his tyrants rested on the floor rather than floating in midair, and kept their eyestalks drooping, so as to look dead rather than alive.
Wards that were nigh worthless, a lot of “impress gullible idiots” decor… well, one could but hope Dardulkyn’s tomes and enchanted items were a tenth as powerful as the man’s mind believed they were. It was high time to see what he’d gained, and if his new dupe had any magic at all that was new to Manshoon the Mighty, Emperor-to-be of Cormyr and Beyond.
Yes, that did have a ring to it, it did.
Arclath nodded. “So, talk.”
Elminster needed no more prompting. “Lad,” he began, “ye’ve heard from Storm who it was who slew me: Manshoon.”
“Another centuries-old wizard. Once ruled Zhentil Keep, rode dragons, wasn’t nice. Or so the old tales say.”
Mirt chuckled and nodded.
“Those tales lie not,” El agreed, “and tell ye almost all ye need to know about the man. Hear now the rest. There have been many Manshoons. When he’s slain, another of his selves awakens, and ye must slay him all over again. His Art is very strong, and with it he can easily conquer the minds of others and make them his slaves.”
“As you can,” Arclath said softly.
“As I can, aye. Yet Manshoon is… far less considerate. Where I cozen-”
“Manipulate.”
“As good a word for it, aye. Where I manipulate, he coerces.”
Storm and Mirt both nodded, so Arclath did, too. “And so?”
“The man loves not just to defeat and dominate-he lives to rule. Zhentil Keep and its farflung tentacles- literally scores of holds, from waystop keeps to cities. To say nothing of Westgate, Ombraldar, and far Shanooth. He isn’t just here hunting me. Tired of a Westgate that won’t stay ruled but seethes tirelessly with deceits, challenges, and coup attempts-a delight for him for a decade or two but increasingly tiresome thereafter, as he sees the same ploys and clumsy deceptions a fourth and a tenth time, or more-he’s set his sights on a brighter prize. He’s here in Suzail to conquer the realm.”
“Isn’t competition for that particular ambition a mite crowded already?” Arclath asked. “How can you be certain of Manshoon’s involvement, given all the plots and feuds and Crown-hatreds that have been nursed here for centuries? Centuries!”
“Therein lies the sport. Using various nobles and courtiers as his pawns, and remaining unnoticed until his chosen time to reveal himself. The brawl at Council may in very large part be his doing.”
“Perhaps, but could you not be as guilty as we nobles of Cormyr are, of seeing every little chance happening not as what it truly is, but as the latest move in our ongoing feuds with each other and the Crown? You see Manshoon’s hand because you expect to, whether or not it’s really there.”
“I agree,” said Amarune, her voice clearly hers and not Elminster’s.
“Rune!” Arclath cried, reaching for her. “He’s let you master yourself again! Why-”
“We’re sharing, lad,” El rumbled, out of the lips Arclath was leaning to kiss. And grinned. “So go on, kiss thy lady. I’ll not look.”
Arclath froze for a moment, bewildered-then shrugged, swept Rune into his arms, and kissed her heartily.
After a good long time, she ended it with a smile and looked past his shoulder. “Storm? Mirt? What think you?”
“El’s right. Manshoon is here in Suzail, and up to something. Seizing the Dragon Throne will be his goal. Seizing thrones always is.”
Mirt nodded agreement. “El has the right of it. As usual.”
Rune’s smile faded as she regarded Arclath, nose to nose. “Much as I hate to think of an evil archwizard slyly at work in our city, it could very well be true. After all, these three believe it, and they’ve known this spellhurler and our realm far longer than we have. Whether they’re right or not, we dare not dismiss their warning as mistaken.”
Arclath let out a long, exasperated sigh. “You’re right, Rune. Of course. And I should need no one else to remind me of my duty to the realm. Nobles must watch for all perils to fair Cormyr, so we can save our land from itself if the need arises. For the sake of Cormyr and everyone in it, I dare not behave as if this tale of a lurking Manshoon is less than true.”
Storm spread her hands, but it was Elminster who spoke the words to go with them. “And so?”
Arclath waited for Mirt but heard only silence. With all eyes looking at him.
“We’re lost if we try to find Manshoon’s mind-slaves among all the lords of Cormyr,” he said slowly, thinking aloud. “They’re all traitors, in tiny matters or large schemings. Every last one of them will seem as suspicious as they always do. Our rooting among them warns Manshoon that we know of him, and gives him endless opportunities to slay us at will.”
He winced, seeing imagined disasters at every hand. “No, we must rally to the Dragon Throne. Return to the palace, try to keep out of Glathra’s clutches, and hunt for traces of Manshoon-and his mind-slaves and allies among the wizards of war.”
Storm and Rune both nodded vigorously.
“Using my Art and the Princess Alusair’s aid to hide from Glathra as much as we can,” El put in. “So, ye’ve brought us into the palace, amid much fun of dodging Purple Dragons and war wizards and hundreds of prying courtiers, lad. Where, with the aid of a score of friendly gods, we find and scour out every last traitor within the walls. Finding no Manshoon, who must be outside the palace laughing at us and thoroughly aware of our every belch, yawn, and need to scratch. What then?”
Arclath frowned. “Above all, the king must be protected. All Obarskyrs must, for that matter. Yet, I know not how.”
“Heh,” Mirt growled, “ye must make all ‘hows’ up as ye go along. I learned that well, the hard way. It strikes me this realm awash in Crown mages needs a ruling hand that every last wizard of war is afraid of. If the infamous Sage of Shadowdale has to step into Vangerdahast’s old boots and become royal magician and court wizard all in one, hated by every noble in the kingdom and feared by every commoner, well… so be it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
