Spellstorm (11 page)

“
I
heard,” a sardonic man’s voice came from behind Tabra, “that you single-handedly
slew Telamont Tanthul, Most High of the Princes of Shade.” It was Malchor Harpell,
and he was smiling slyly.

Elminster shrugged. “Single-handedly? No. Yet he did die. These things happen from
time to time.”

“But you were chiefly responsible,” Malchor pressed. El shrugged again.

“That’s true?” Tabra whispered, trembling slightly, her eyes very large now, and very
dark.

Elminster stepped back and picked up a decanter, in case he was about to need a weapon,
and admitted gravely, “Lady Tabra, it is.”

The look she gave him then held pure adulation. She was smitten. Uh-oh.

“Berduskan, perhaps?” he asked quickly, holding up the decanter.

“Please,” she purred. “A
very
large glass.”

“And you, Malchor?” Elminster asked quickly, pouring and steering Tabra’s glass into
her hand while trying to ignore the clear invitation in her mismatched eyes.

“I’ll have twilight wine, if you have any—fitting, for one who dwells in the Tower
of Twilight.”

“Still?” El asked.

“Ah, you heard it had disappeared after the Blue Fire struck. Yes. Well. Contingencies,
you know …”

“I do,” El agreed gravely, producing the smoky blue vintage that had been requested.
Malchor Harpell looked, if anything, younger and sleeker than he remembered—glossy
black hair, an immaculately kept, close-cropped beard that adorned the line of his
chin, forbidding glossy black eyebrows, eyes so very dark blue as to seem black. And
calm, always sardonically calm, his intellect very much on display. He wore two layers
of robes, charcoal gray over black, which made him look like some priests El could
remember. “Elder statesman of Longsaddle now?”

Malchor sighed. “A role I left behind me centuries ago. I rather suspect I’m forgotten
in Longsaddle, these days—thought long dead, or worse. I did not leave on the best
of terms. There was—but no, such things are better left unspoken. The kin I miss are
long dead now—and I
don’t
miss being an elder. I’d much rather play the young rapscallion.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Elminster and Lord Halaunt and Manshoon all started to say together,
then broke off to eye each other in surprise and flaring
amusement. Still smiling, El turned back to the sideboard—to find himself nose to
nose with a wrinkled crone of a woman who stared bitterly at him, the remains of what
once must have been striking beauty still apparent in her face. He knew her from some
covert long-ago scrying, but it would be best to pretend otherwise. This one was trouble.

Calathlarra of the Twisted Rune, known to be icily rude, cruel, and inflexible even
among their ruthless and hardened ranks. Though wrinkles and sagging flesh ruled her
face and chin, the rest of her was still tall, shapely, and sleekly graceful, very
straight and glossy jet-black hair framed her face and fell almost to her ankles.
She wore a dark maroon gown over black breeches and leather warrior’s boots of the
same hue. El nodded to her politely. After all, ’twas not every day he almost brushed
noses with a Runemaster without murderous spells being hurled.

“Lady,” he asked gently, indicating the many decanters on the sideboard, “what can
I get you?”

“Nothing, worm,” she said coldly. “I’ll pour my own. Only fools trust Elminster the
meddler.”

“That,” he replied, amused despite himself, “is not true. If ye’d said, ‘only fools
should
trust Elminster the meddler,’ then ye would have uttered truth.”

Maraunth Torr was already serving himself, and paused long enough in doing so to give
Elminster a sidelong smiling look.

“Pah! You always think yourself very clever,” Calathlarra said witheringly.

“Well,” Elminster replied, “it’s something comforting to think upon, at least. What
do Runemasters think about?”

She hissed. “So you know.”

“But of course! I
am
very clever,” he replied, giving her a merry wink, and spun away—to find himself
breast to breast with Alastra Hathwinter.

Who solemnly returned his early wink to him, and murmured, “Oooh, Lord Elminster,
Scourge of Women! My heart melts, and so does my—”

“
Excuse
me,” Tabra interrupted them, giving Alastra a frosty look, “but my glass seems to
need refilling.” Literally ramming one of her sharp hips into Alastra to push her
aside, she faced Elminster and held up her glass, which was indeed empty.

The displaced Harper mage gave Elminster a twinkling little smile from behind Tabra,
and glided away, clutching her already-filled glass to her bosom.

“But
allow
me,” El murmured, taking the glass from Tabra and turning to the decanter of Berduskan.
His turn brought him around to face Lord Halaunt, who tendered him another solemn
wink. Alusair was evidently amused. “The same again?” he asked Tabra.

“Oh, yes, Lord Elminster.
Please
.”

Inwardly, Elminster rolled his eyes. This was going to get bad. Very bad. And very
soon.

A
LUSAIR HAD OVER THE YEARS SEEN COUNTLESS GOOD
“
FEASTS FOR MANY
” prepared and served, so it had taken her only a swift glance at Halaunt’s barely
adequate pantries and superb wine cellar to plan a good feast—and not all that many
moments to launch Mirt and Myrmeen along the road to preparing it. That wine cellar
was going to come in very handy.

By means of the sliding panels, an array of cheeses had been set out—with the bluntest
little ornamental knives Myrmeen could find—on the sideboards, along with more decanters
of wine.

This had been done more to buy time for cooking than anything else, but Alusair, as
Lord Halaunt, was sending Elminster amused glances as decanters were drained with
impressive speed, and the talk grew louder and lewder. It seemed mighty archmages
weren’t much different than the rest of the world—the prouder, more arrogant, self-centered
part of the rest of the world—when one came right down to it.

Both the lord and his new steward kept circulating, thankful that the room was large
enough that one had to walk to eavesdrop. They took care to keep moving, talking to
one guest after another, and trying not to be too obvious watching which combinations
of wizards were friendly to each other, and which were frosty.

And wherever he trudged in the room, Lord Sardasper Halaunt asked pleasantly, “So
tell me, why do you want the Lost Spell? If it was yours, what would you do with it?”

Alusair wasn’t expecting to hear much truth—though she hoped the
real
reasons would come out later, when she met with each of her guests privately, and
bade them make an offer—but she was almighty interested in whatever glib public reasons
she might be given. They were, after all, standing in Cormyr, the land she loved beyond
life itself, and the spell was something that would make an already powerful wizard
mighty indeed.

“I am interested in magic for its own sake,” Manshoon replied gravely. “Some of my
previous selves ruled here or there, and made bids for power, but I am past that now.
I seek to fully understand the mysteries of the Art. Blessed Mystra is not called
Our Lady of Mysteries for nothing.”

Alusair had no way at all of knowing if he was telling the truth. She doubted it,
for his reputation suggested that his habit wasn’t to deal in truth when falsehoods
served him better. However, he had suffered setback after setback this last century
and more; perhaps disappointment after disappointment would turn some from courting
fresh disaster. On the other hand, if he was telling the truth, some of those disappointments
might not have been. Disappointing, that is. Hmmm.

When it was Calathlarra’s turn, she told Lord Halaunt fiercely, “For more power. What
else? I have formidable foes, and my life is dangerous—if I can face each new day
girded with more power, I can accomplish that much more, and shed that much more fear.”

Well, now. To horse and full charge straight ahead for this one. Or was that just
a pose, a tactic put on in such powerful company? The Twisted Rune wouldn’t have achieved
half what they had if they boldly plowed straight ahead; the Zhentarim had proven
the folly of that. Hmmm again.

“To keep the Lost Spell from falling into worse hands than mine,” Malchor Harpell
confided. “Mine, I trust. Those of others, I cannot—least of all most of the mages
gathered in this room.”

A noble reason indeed—if it were true. But was it? To have ridden herd on as wild
a family as the Harpells of old, Malchor must have become a master manipulator. Was
this merely what he thought Lord Halaunt might admire, or approve of? Or did he mean
it?

“I would use it for revenge,” Tabra said softly, her mismatched eyes flashing.

Oh, yes, this one meant the words she spoke.

This one will be trouble
, Alusair thought at Elminster along the Weave, catching his eye.
Yet I like her
.

We both like trouble
, El replied.
Keep an open mind; ’tis early, yet
.

Early has a distressing habit of becoming late too soon and all too swiftly
, the Steel Regent of Cormyr retorted, and he sent her a wry and wordless burst of
acceptance.

They’d promised Ganrahast that the Lost Spell would be yielded only into “responsible
hands,” but they were both beginning to share the clear mistrust the Royal Magician
had greeted that statement with. The hands of these mages were quite likely responsible
for many dark things.

They both kept on strolling and talking, Lord Halaunt collecting answers, and Elminster
collecting more badinage than anything else.

Shaaan’s reply to Lord Halaunt was that she liked to collect spells and study them,
and this magic promised to be
very
interesting.

The woman lies like a snake, was Alusair’s silent judgment.

Maraunth Torr offered the opinion that every wizard of power and achievement sought
to gain every last spell they could, and he was no different. Some mages might deny
that hunger, but they were deceivers; he himself had long ago passed all need to practice
deceit.

Oh? Really? I doubt it, my lord wizard
. Alusair couldn’t keep a sneer of disbelief out of her thoughts.
I doubt it
very
much
.

Alastra told Lord Halaunt that she hoped to do some good in the world if she had the
Lost Spell, and assured him that the very idea of ruling some place made her shudder.
She then demonstrated that shuddering, in a way that displayed more of her bosom rather
deliciously. Alusair made both of Lord Halaunt’s eyebrows go up, but inwardly felt
not the slightest astonishment. Someone was bound to try, ah, fleshly wiles, and Alastra
at least had the looks for it.

She
was
surprised when Yusendre of Nimbral tried the same tactic, but even more boldly—making
a whispered promise—and confessed to a sensual longing to experience and master new
spells. Was every last female mage here going to rush straight to the seduction gambit?
Even when their looks couldn’t compete? What happened to using sharp wits to come
up with alternatives?

By the Purple Dragon, the two women could warm a chill mansion all by themselves.
Perhaps they should be installed in fireplaces at either end of the grandrooms, so
the others could relax cozily of evenings …

The other Elder of Nimbral, Skouloun, gave more or less the same reason as Malchor,
asserting that he himself was the most trustworthy
custodian of the Lost Spell—for he would use it to smite evildoers, tyrants, and those
who hoarded magic, not to mention rout the most dangerous monsters all across Faerûn,
to usher in a new era of peace and prosperity, to better the lives of all.

Ye gods, what wind! It was tiring just listening to Skouloun, not that she believed
him.

How fare you, El? Growing tired of the sheer piffle being served up yet? I am
.

Lass, lass, after so many centuries, I breathe in piffle with every passing moment,
and speak it out almost as often. Look upon it as entertainment, lass—as royalty,
I’d’ve thought ye would have resorted to that tactic for retaining thy sanity long
ago
.

The ghost sent him a mental snort.
Retaining my sanity? Too late, Sage of Shadowdale!
Much
too late
.

El sent her back a mental chuckle.

While she as Lord Halaunt had been collecting answers, he hadn’t been indulging in
mere idle banter while serving cheese and drinkables.

More than once questions were put to him about his presence, sometimes in a hostile
manner. Skouloun had observed, “This is Lord Halaunt’s home, so his presence here
is both natural and expected. But just what are you doing here? Want the Lost Spell
for yourself, do you?”

El gave him a catlike little smile that he’d spent some time in front of mirrors practicing,
after having seen Amarune do it, and replied, “I am here to help in deciding which
of ye—if any—is worthy of possessing the Lost Spell.”

“Surely that should be a matter for our host,” Skouloun protested, waving one hand
grandly in the direction of Lord Halaunt—as one of those awkward little lulls that
happens early in almost any gathering of strangers or hostiles befell.

Leaving everyone gazing with interest at their host, to see what the bitter old noble
would do.

Which, it turned out, was to give them all a level look and tell them, “We shall decide
to yield the Lost Spell to just one of you, as I see that as the way to cause Cormyr—and
all Toril, beyond—a minimum of strife and affray. ‘We’ because I hired Elminster to
be my steward, as matters of magic are new and uncomfortable to me, and he has a certain
reputation for competency. Or longevity, which when dealing with deadly spells seems
to me to be very much the same thing. I trust that I know
people
,
but not spells. So, all of you, know this: I trust Elminster of Shadowdale absolutely,
and have placed half of the measure of judgment in this matter in his hands. Not to
mention the Lost Spell itself, which he tells me he’s hidden where only he shall ever
find it.”