Spellstorm (12 page)

All eyes turned to Elminster, who had to quell his inner amusement from rising to
his face. Even when playing a stiff old noble, Alusair had certainly mastered the
art of painting a target on a fellow. Still, this should help to force some of the
wizards here to try one approach with the lord, and another with his steward, and
so betray their own true worth.

El decided the best tactic, just now, was to look grave. He steepled his fingers like
a pious priest and nodded slowly, contriving to look a trifle on the sad side of thoughtful.

One of the women—he dared not look to see who—snorted in clear derision. Well, aye,
his act was barely believable, he had to give her that.

However, Lord Halaunt’s words had worked. Attention had left the old noble; every
last guest was now focused on Elminster, and they were all sidling toward him.

He had to firmly squash another urge to laugh. This was as good as a play.

He just hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be the sort of production where bodies piled
up on the stage …

“Sage of Shadowdale,” Shaaan murmured, as she reached Elminster and halted shoulder
to shoulder, so she was looking past him but able to speak sidelong into his ear,
“I’m sure a man who’s lived the sort of long and interesting life you have must have
made many enemies, and accumulated many debts. I’m not called a queen for nothing;
the wealth I could share with you could smooth away your every material want …”

She broke off as Maraunth Torr got close enough to obviously listen in, and added
only, “Don’t forget this offer,” as she glided away.

Elminster turned and followed her, ignoring Maraunth Torr as if he’d been a pillar
or a piece of furniture, and when she noticed this and whirled, he gave her a chuckle
and the words, “Deftly done, lass. Not a hint of the salacious, just the coins proffered.
Not that such blandishments have worked on me for the last twelve centuries or so.
But I thank ye for the entertainment.”

Shaaan hissed, then asked, “And how are you at receiving
threats
?”

El shrugged. “Depends. How menacing are they?”

“Oh, I can be
very
menacing. Starting with your anointed successor, Amarune Whitewave.”

Elminster shook his head. “No. Too crude and obvious. There’s an art to it, Snakeshanks.
Lead with the suggestive but minor, and build to thy stronger threats.”

And with that, he spun away, feeling the sharp prick of the envenomed needle she’d
spat into the back of his hand before he’d taken his second stride.

It tingled rather than burned, so he knew he had to do nothing at all. Bone asp venom,
by the rough edge of that tingling, and bone asp venom hadn’t been able to harm him
for three centuries now. My, but it was nice to be wanted—gone.

Maraunth Torr was waiting patiently for him as El strode up. “I presume the Serpent
Queen offered you riches, and threatened you as an incentive to accept them,” he said
with preamble. “It’s her usual way.”

Elminster nodded. “And what’s
thy
usual way, Maraunth Torr?” The chatter and mingling around them were now loud and
brisk enough that only those standing nearest could eavesdrop—and he didn’t really
care if anyone did listen in. Yusendre of Nimbral, for one, was keeping close, but
trying to stay behind him and out of his field of vision.

“I will be so bold as to offer you my service,” the urbane and handsome wizard replied
smoothly. “I’ve assembled a collection of spells most individuals would find very
impressive, but I can hardly hope to impress a Chosen of Mystra. Yet I’m sure you
can always use an extra pair of eyes and hands—and mine can wield magic most can never
hope to master.”

“If I yield the Lost Spell to ye,” Elminster said dryly. “Binding thyself in servitude,
making thyself many new foes—for we who serve Mystra are not widely loved—to gain
one spell? Forgive me if I doubt thy veracity. Or that thy service, if rendered, would
be selfless. I smell the proverbial rat. Or perhaps an incontinent dragon.”

“It’s hardly prudent to spurn my offer out of hand with such gratuitous and unfounded
insults,” Maraunth Torr replied with a smile. “Being as I wield power enough to be
able to harm those near and dear to you, and hamper your causes. To prefer to face
threats rather than to accept bribes is hardly the act of a sane man, I must say.”

“Aye, obviously ye must,” Elminster replied dryly. “Yet I’ve not been sane for these
last thousand-some years, so thy point strays wide and leaves me unskewered. Manshoon
yonder has been threatening me for more than a century—or rather, various of him have—yet
here I still stand. That should tell thee something.”

“I,” Maraunth Torr said a trifle coldly, “am not Manshoon.”

“Aye,” El replied, almost purring out the words. “I’d noticed.”

Maraunth Torr reddened around the temples, a blush that spread down the line of his
jaw as it tightened.

Ah, yes
, that smarts.
Ye very want to achieve as much as Manshoon, or at least assume half the mantle of
his infamy
. Smiling serenely at the glowering wizard, Elminster strolled on.

To find Yusendre suddenly in front of him, gliding to a stop with a little smile and
nod of greeting.

“Bad form,” she commented, holding up her empty glass.

“What’s bad form?” he asked politely, selecting a decanter, proffering it, and when
she nodded acceptance, refilling her glass.

“I know not what the scaled woman and Saer Torr said to you at first,” she replied,
“but I know they both ended by uttering threats. They’re not accustomed to hiding
their true feelings, so I or anyone who cares to can easily read their tone of voice,
or facial expressions … proper little tyrants, the pair of them.”

“Whereas you are a proper little—what?” El asked her lightly.

“Would-be friend. Kindness and friendship achieve much more than fear, outright threat,
and glowering menace.”

“So, Yusendre, is this the ‘sleep with me, Elminster; my price is merely the Lost
Spell’ gambit?” Malchor murmured, from where he’d drifted up behind her.

She gave him a pleasant smile that held no hint of irritation. “Why not? Fun to play,
even if it fails, hmm?” And turned her gaze back to Elminster, a clear promise in
her eyes.

“Thy beauty and thy spirit are both … admirable,” El replied, “yet I have known the
beauty and spirit of the goddess I serve, and it has … tempered me, as a swordsmith
tempers a blade, in matters of seduction.”

Oooh, hearken to the man. I’ll just bet your blade is tempered!
Alusair commented wickedly.

I thought it a suitably arch comment, myself
, El thought back at her, letting her feel his amusement.

Around and between them, as decanters were emptied much faster than the cheese was
disappearing, some of the guests were trading murmured threats, and others seemed
to be tentatively trying to establish alliances.

The male Elder of Nimbral seemed irritated. “Though we’ve been here but a short time,”
he complained to Malchor Harpell, “this entire situation has, to me, the feel of a
cage, wherein we who seek the Lost Spell are confined until one of us wins it—and
is thereby handed the chance to slaughter the rest of us, his or her conveniently
gathered rivals.”

Malchor sighed. “Try not to say such things too freely, and impart ideas to those
who just might try to make them reality. I’d rather not see dead bodies strewn everywhere
around this nice old house. Just think what all of us gathered here in this room could
achieve if we mustered all of our Art and worked together!”

“
That
will never happen,” Skouloun said flatly. “Not even if any of us were crazed enough
to want it to.”

Malchor sighed a little sadly. “A realist, I see,” he said, staring at the Elder of
Nimbral. “You and your kind always take all
the fun
out of things.”

And he turned on his heel and strode away. In his wake, Skouloun sniffed disparagingly,
shrugged, and then departed in the direction of the nearest decanter.

Leaving Alastra Hathwinter, who’d been edging up behind Malchor, all alone in the
suddenly vacated spot. She stared after Malchor longingly.

Then she took a step after him, and another, started to gather speed—and then stopped
abruptly, some of the color draining from her face.

Elminster came to a stop beside her and murmured, “This would seem to me to be the
time when a gallant old archmage would engage thee in gentle converse to soothe and
restore thy heart.”

Alastra sighed. “You’re most kind, Lord Elminster, but I doubt even the most golden
tongue can restore me so easily.”

Together they gazed across the room at the reason for her sudden stop—and despair.
Malchor Harpell was now talking to both Manshoon and Shaaan, who were facing out into
the room watchfully. That little group was a decidedly less than safe place for a
Harper to be.

The lass
, El thought at Alusair a little bleakly,
is smitten
.

With you, old buzzard?

Nay. Oh, she’s in awe of me, and reveres me a little—a founder of the Harpers, and
all that. But she’s hopelessly in love with Malchor. Methinks she doesn’t really want
the Lost Spell so much as she wants yonder former elder pillar of the Harpells kept
safe. And, of course, she wants no foes of the Harpers to gain possession of the Lost
Spell
.

A platter heaped with wants, then. I wonder how many she’ll be able to halfway fulfill?

El smiled a little grimly.
Well, Luse, given this company, precious few to none, I’d say
.

Alusair sent him a wordless mind surge of resigned agreement.

Elminster bent his head close to Alastra’s and murmured, “Tell me now, as one Harper
to another: what can ye tell me of our host, the Lord Halaunt?”

Alastra gave him a look of surprise, then smiled and replied, “He’s a rather unsavory
individual who for years has been covertly hiring various less-than-law-abiding adventuring
bands, often in Sembia, to further his ends—and damage the property and dealings of
his rivals among the nobility.”

“A noble who resorts to bullyblades to make his will real,” El concluded.

“Precisely. Yet he’s no loner; he and Manshoon collaborated on swindling a wealthy
Sembian merchant family eight summers back. Mlorgathyn of Selgaunt, a dealer in fine
wines, scents, and sauces.”

“Interesting,” El replied, wondering how well Manshoon knew Halaunt, and, for that
matter, Oldspires.

He let his gaze wander to Manshoon’s face, and his longtime rival felt or sensed the
weight of his regard, looked his way, and when their eyes met, gave him a soft, dangerous
“I’ll get you someday” smile.

Elminster chuckled aloud.

Oh
, yes, this was going to get bad.

Very bad. And very soon.

M
YRMEEN AND
M
IRT
had worked miracles. Scores of candles flickered overhead in the great hanging maerifasturs,
fires crackled merrily in all three of the feast hall’s great fireplaces, and the
tables were covered with fine linens, old but gleaming silver, and a handsome feast,
on abundant platters, of a quality and variety that outshone many a noble’s best.

Despite himself, and the many feasts he had attended in his long, long life, Elminster
was impressed. He couldn’t mindspeak either Myrmeen or Mirt without working a spell,
as unlike the ghost of the princess, they
weren’t bound up in the Weave, so he would have to wait until he could speak to them
alone to convey his gratitude. He owed them—boy, did he owe them. If this was the
standard they were setting …

He shook his head, which prompted Tabra, who’d literally backed him into a corner
with relentless small talk because she obviously wanted to ask him something, to inquire,
“What in particular of what I’ve just said do you disagree with, Lord Elminster?”

“A stray thought,” he replied soothingly, “nothing more.”

“Ah,” she responded. “So I
may
ask you something?”

He gave her a smile and his full attention. “Ask away.”

“Thank you. You are aware I was Ioulaum’s last apprentice?”

El nodded.

“And that in an effort to pry certain spells out of me, the Netherese of Thultanthar
captured and enslaved me?”

“They sought Ioulaum’s Longevity, no doubt,” El offered.

Tabra gave him a sharp look. “Do
you
seek it, too?”

Elminster shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “For some years I’ve not wanted to live
much longer, to say nothing of forever.”

“It was Telamont Tanthul who did this to me,” Tabra hissed. “I hate him, and all those
who served him. I’m told you destroyed him with ease—how? Tell me,
how
?”

“The Weave,” El told her.

She gave him a look of disgust, but he protested, “Nay, misunderstand me not! I’m
not being clever and taunting you with flippant glibness, denying you what you seek
as a weapon against the Thultanthans you hunt; I’m seeking to tell you it’s no spell,
nor combination of spells, that you can learn from me and use.”