“We’ll change thy appearance again and give ye another name, so ye can dwell in Suzail free of that particular problem,” El told him.
“And we’ll spread word that Illance tortured and killed Helderstone, then hid his body, so our kindly old lord here will receive some very unwanted attention from the war wizards,” Storm added with a sly smile.
Mirt grinned. “The two of ye would have made very good Lords of Waterdeep, ye know?”
El and Storm exchanged glances again.
“As I recall,” Storm added sweetly, “we did.”
Lady Greatgaunt’s rented suite boasted three guest bedchambers, and although her war wizard escort bedded down in the most distant one, there was no one at all to see that he stayed there.
Particularly in the hours just before dawn, when two tired walkers came home with some wine and a filched wheel of Illance’s cheese to share between them.
“So,” Storm asked Elminster as they munched and sipped, “how do we find the mysterious noble who has a blueflame ghost up his sleeve? We can’t just go from mansion to tower all around Suzail knocking down doors and trying to shake the truth out of every lord and lady we meet!”
El grinned. “No,” he agreed, “so we’ll lure a ghost to us, instead. I’ll use a spell to grace a certain mask dancer with blue flames, and wait for word to spread.”
“Tress won’t thank you for getting her club wrecked by a blueflame ghost,” Storm said quietly. “And young Arclath will probably try to serve your beard up to you on a platter-attached to your head or not-for endangering his love.”
“The dancer isn’t going to be at the Dragonriders’ and isn’t going to be Amarune,” El told her happily.
“Then who…” Storm gave him a sharp look. “Oh, no, El. Oh, no!”
“I’d much rather see you barepelt than young Rune, and I’ll wager most of Suzail will, too. You’re something splendid, lass. Truly. And you don’t look a day older than, say, twenty-two summers.”
“You rogue,” she replied with a twinkling smile. “You lying, flattering rogue.”
“Aye, that’s me,” he said serenely. “Shall we go out and purchase a mask?”
“After I’ve had a good long sleep,” Storm replied emphatically. “There’s no longer a Weave to replenish us, Old Mage, and I get tired, these days. Weren’t you ‘about done’ most of the night ago?”
“I was,” El agreed-and fell face-first onto her bed. He was snoring in a trice.
Storm rolled her eyes.
“Now that’s a useful trick, Sage of Shadowdale,” she told him.
Then she bent closer and frowned. He really was snoring.
She kicked off Illance’s boots, wriggled out of his clothes-they fit terribly, and she resolved to burn them before someone recognized them; Suzail these days seemed a city of tireless spies-and cuddled against him.
In his sleep, Elminster stroked her then put an arm around her.
Storm amused herself by trying to undress him, but fell asleep in his arms before she got very far.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Manshoon leaned eagerly forward in his chair, straining to see and hear better.
Or rather, to urge Ironhand, ever so gently, to shift to where he could see and hear better.
Manshoon’s spell would let him observe what Ironhand was seeing and hearing for just a little longer. He wasn’t riding the man’s mind, because he didn’t want the risk of being where Ironhand was just then.
He had found his best blueflame hunter yet. Imglor “Imhammer” Ironhand was very expensive, but worth it. The man was almost as ruthless, careful, and coldly calm as Manshoon himself, and had carved himself out an impressive career as a slayer-for-hire specializing in swift and covert killings disguised as accidents.
No slaying was necessary, this time-only a slayer unmasked. The noble who commanded the lone blueflame ghost that had appeared at the Council.
Thus far, Ironhand had helped make almost certain that three candidates for the blueflame noble were not, in fact, the one Manshoon sought.
At that moment, Manshoon’s new hireling had wormed his way onto the roof of a high house adjacent to the one where Lord Harkuldragon was strutting around an upper room that had open windows. Through which Ironhand could hear a discussion between Harkuldragon and his longtime hired mage, the homely, aging sourface Sarrak of Westgate about the slaying of a certain inconvenient courtier.
The courtier was one whose death half Suzail would greet cheerfully. The pompous Khaladan Mallowfaer, Master of Revels, was no one’s favorite or confidant, and as far as Manshoon knew was kinless, had never married, and had never romanced anyone. He’d hired doxies aplenty, of course, but that was an entirely different matter. His inconvenience to Harkuldragon was that he’d inadvertently learned something of the noble’s planned treason, and so could expose Harkuldragon, if he so desired. A situation the lord naturally found intolerable.
What had made Manshoon pay far too much to have Ironhand eavesdropping on the noble and his mage was Harkuldragon’s grim comment over one too many goblets, at The Three Ravens some nights ago, that if “the usual magics failed” he had “something more to settle scores with.”
Harkuldragon could have meant nothing more than blackmail, the fact that he was good with his fists and swift to use them, or that he owned a magic sword of great age and mysterious powers that adventurers of his hiring had once brought him. Or he might have a pet monster, or be able to call in a favor from a mage or two. But then again, it might mean he could send forth his own slayer wreathed in blue flame…
So far, the converse Ironhand had overheard hadn’t suggested blueflame ghosts or anything of the sort, but they were getting to interesting words finally, as Harkuldragon’s temper started to slip.
“The man’s as greedy and malicious as a snake, Sarrak! And as conceited as- what was that?”
Ironhand had heard it, too, and leaned out so far in a neck-craning attempt to see and hear that his eavesdropping almost became literal.
Someone had caused the lock on the door of that upper room to burst outward in all directions, showering the room with tiny pattering fragments of metal that would have been deadly if they hadn’t been almost dust.
The door yawned open, evidently revealing no one at all outside the room.
“Make whoever it is visible, wizard! Banish invisibility, or whatever the spell is!” Lord Harkuldragon bellowed.
“Done,” Sarrak replied a moment later.
“Who-who are you?” the nobleman demanded, hauling out his belt dagger and glaring at someone Ironhand couldn’t see. “Wizard, don’t just stand there! Smite her! Smite her down!”
“I fear he can’t, noisy fool. He made the mistake of obeying you-and while he was making me visible, I was casting paralysis on him.”
With an easy, almost insolent stride, a tall and slender woman came into the room. She had pale white skin, a sharp-featured, cruel face dominated by large, dark eyes that snapped with simmering anger, and long, long legs. She was clad all in black except for a silver weathercloak that hung from her shoulders, and Ironhand was certain he’d never seen her before.
A woman this beautiful, he would remember.
“Who are you?” he demanded, hefting his dagger as he came around the table. “And what do you want?”
“I am the Lady of Ghosts. And fear not, Lord Harkuldragon-my business here is not with you at all. I am here for Sarrak of Westgate.”
“Sarrak? Why?”
“Your questions grow tiresome. Perhaps you should fear me, after all.”
“Oh? You wield no weapon, and I’m protected against spells. Perhaps you should fear me.”
Harkuldragon strode toward the woman, who stood watching him come closer, making no move at all. She looked bored.
Two strides from her the lord suddenly hissed out a curse, shook his dagger hand as he stepped back, then
