Spellstorm (26 page)

Malchor looked amused at that, but the looks Manshoon and Shaaan sent Elminster’s
way were positively glacial.

“T
HEY
’
VE ALL GONE
,” Mirt muttered, returning from peering around the feast hall. “We can get on with
the washing-up, at least until the next time one of them tries to murder the others.”

Myrmeen looked up from the growing mound of dirty dishes. “You don’t think they’ll
try for one of us first?”

Mirt snorted. “And have to play at being their own cooks and servants? No fear!”

A moment later, he added, “Well, except for El, here. The Serpent Queen’s last little
crack was a clear reminder that they see all Chosen of Mystra as spies set over them—so
if they want to go against what they know she stands for, and merrily continue eliminating
powerful wielders of the Art, they’ll probably want Mystra’s eyes and ears gone.”

Myrmeen nodded, and turned to Elminster. “Does that have anything to do with your
demand that we wash every last dinner plate? They only dirtied three each, you know,
and you’ve stacked up three
dozen
here!”

“Lass, lass, I’ll be doing the washing of them. And ’tis not just my own skin I’m
looking to save by washing plates; when they try for me, daggers are far more likely
to be their means of choice for my demise. I’m merely remembering King Ulduth.”

“King Ulduth?”

“The ruler of a vestpocket realm in the Border Kingdoms that the Zhentarim had a useful
working relationship with, until he grew tired of being swindled out of most of the
pittance they’d agreed would be his share. Very soon after he rebuffed them, he and
his seven wives, not to mention all their children and most of his royal court, died
the same night, after a sumptuous feast. All poisoned in the same way. Nattalath.”

“The mingled oil of three nuts,” Mirt said slowly, “that come from Raurin and Durpar.”
He shrugged. “That’s all I know, beyond the fact that the noble House of Kormallis
in Waterdeep did a handsome sideline trade in the stuff, with traders from Amn and
Calimshan. Until something happened we never learned the details of, to disrupt it.
Nattalath oil is a normal part of traditional cuisine east of the Inner Sea, we were
given to understand.”

El half smiled. “Ye could say that. If poisoning diners is ‘normal,’ that is. Nattalath
has a light salty taste and dries clear, so some Zhent got into Ulduth’s scullery,
doused all the feasting plates in it, and set them to dry undisturbed. Nattalath reliquifies
when ye put hot food with hotter sauces atop it, and strong-flavored fare serves to
hide its saltiness. So everyone who ate off those plates died. In their sleep, later
that night; scores of them. So no more Ulduth, and his kingdom went with him, too.
The Zhents just happened to have more than a few well-armed agents and magelings visiting
the kingdom, who knew all about the deaths before the general populace—so they’d already
stepped in and taken over before Ulduth’s barons could even begin to squabble for
his crown. They’re still there today. And as diluting nattalath enough takes care
of it, ye can be sure they wash their plates good and proper.”

Myrmeen looked at the stacked plates a little grimly, shaking her head. “So you suspect
Manshoon?”

“I suspect
all
of our guests, living and dead. But I’m no watch officer, nor tyrant; suspicion is
not enough to spur me to accusation or brutal action. So I take precautions, and watch
my back warily, and wait.”

“Wait until it’s your turn to get murdered?” Myrmeen snapped. “Not a winning strategy,
if I may say so.”

El shrugged. “In that case, it would seem to fit with the sour success of Mystra’s
scheme for throwing mighty mages together to try to force accord among them.”

“Unless she wanted the most obstreperous to go down, and saw this as a way of letting
it all be deeds mortals did to other mortals, and none of it by her direct hand,”
Mirt pointed out. Then he flung his arms wide, and added, “Bah! I’m sick of holding
my own hand back from heartily clouting a few magely faces—and backsides. I’m going
for a walk!”

“Alone?” Myrmeen asked quickly. “That’s unwise.”

Mirt held up a large, full decanter. “I won’t be alone; I’ll have my friend here.”

“Watch thy back,” El warned.

“Always do,” Mirt replied, and strode out.

Myrmeen shot Elminster a worried look. “Should we go after him?”

“Luse is going with him,” the Sage of Shadowdale replied, heading for the sinks. “She’ll
call on us if we’re needed. Just keep thy cleaver handy.”

Myrmeen grinned. “Always do.”

“O
FF DUTY?
”

Mirt prided himself on alertly noticing everything around him. In a life like his,
it had become one of the daily essentials for staying alive a trifle longer.

Yet in the gloom, while trying to peer at the large and rather dark paintings that
adorned the walls, portraits of Halaunts who’d been painted in the saddle, or striking
dramatic sword-wielding poses atop Oldspires ramparts that had long since crumbled
away, he hadn’t seen Manshoon, standing like a statue against the passage wall just
ahead, until the founder of the Zhentarim had spoken.

“You could say that,” he replied calmly, taking another swig from his decanter. It
was full of Amabranth Amber, a potent mushroom and iylbark whisky from Zazesspur.
It had the hue and smell of old boot leather, and the taste of a hard spiced candle
cheese … and it burned warm and delicious, all the way down.

Manshoon seemed to share his calm. “Have you time enough to spare for a private word?”

Mirt regarded his questioner thoughtfully. “I believe I do.”

Manshoon’s response was to step away from the wall and indicate a door that had been
hidden behind him. It stood open, into darkness beyond.

Mirt hid a frown. No stained fingers on Manshoon—and El had warned him to look closely
at fingernails, in case handwashing had scrubbed much of the stain away—but the door
led into a bedchamber intended for the servants of visiting guests of high station,
a room he doubted had seen use for years. Right now, it was supposed to be vacant—and
locked tight, too. The next door along was the room that had been given to Calathlarra,
and the big corner one beyond that to Maraunth Torr.

“I’ll fetch a lamp,” he said.

“No need,” Manshoon replied, and strode into the darkness. There followed a brief
grating sound of stone on stone, and abruptly soft lanternlight illuminated the room.

Mirt peered in.

Manshoon had lifted an iron hood from over a lit lantern that stood on the hearth
of the room’s fireplace. And was now rising, standing back from it, and beckoning.

As Mirt lurched forward, into what was almost certainly a trap, he felt a chill caress
around his ankle. It was Alusair coiling momentarily around him, signaling that she
was present and accompanying him. Invisible and silent, so Manshoon wouldn’t detect
her presence, of course.

“Close the door,” Manshoon murmured.

Mirt took care to keep one eye on the Zhent as he looked up and down the door’s edge.
Seeing no special locks or holes filled with waiting darts, he sidestepped until he
could see the inside surface of the door and, almost to his disappointment, discern
that it was bereft of monsters, lurking assailants, and dagger-firing trapguns. He
took another step sideways, to be well out of line of the door, then swung it gently
shut as he kept his gaze fixed on Manshoon.

If the Zhent had planned to work a spell or hurl a dagger, he showed no signs of doing
so, but held patient silence and immobility until the door was closed, and Mirt had
growled, “So? You wanted a word?”

“I did,” Manshoon confirmed gravely. “Or to be more precise, enough words to make
it clear to you that I require your immediate assistance. You must work for me, without
revealing that you’re doing so to anyone else here at Oldspires—and you must get me
the Lost Spell, right away. I must make use of it just as soon as possible.”

“Or else?”

“Or else I’ll kill you—slowly and horribly. Something I need no magic to do, old man.
I can deal death in many ways, and have had much practice; I’m good at killing.”

“Your threat is clear enough,” Mirt grunted, “but what if I’m unimpressed? Just why
must you use the Lost Spell without delay?”

“Malchor Harpell and Shaaan the Serpent Queen have made a private pact. They will
be unstoppable, working together. Unless, that is, I have the Lost Spell to make me
formidable enough to thwart them.”

Mirt never let his gaze stray from Manshoon for an instant as he opened the door again.
“Then I guess we’re all doomed, Zhent. You see, I don’t have the Lost Spell, don’t
know where Elminster is keeping it, wouldn’t know it if I fell over it or took it
to bed with me—and wouldn’t give it to you under any circumstances.”

He backed out into the passage, clapping his hand to his belt knife, as Manshoon asked
almost gently, “And may I know why not?”

“I don’t take utter snakes as allies, Lord of the Zhentarim, not to mention murderers
of thousands,” Mirt replied coldly. “You’d do better to give this accord you took
the trouble to feign agreeing to a try, and see if the high road and fair dealing
gets you a mite farther than your usual treacheries.”

And with that, he turned on his heel to lurch back the way he’d come.

Manshoon swallowed his fury in the briefest of hisses, racing after the moneylender
with arms spread, reaching to strangle Mirt from behind—but the old man’s departure
had been a ruse.

Whirling with surprising speed for his paunch and lurching gait, Mirt landed a solid
punch in Manshoon’s face, then slammed home the halffull and very hard decanter into
Manshoon’s throat, driving the Zhent staggering back in agony. Alusair was like a
numbing chill between them, wrapped around Mirt so his blows could land with full
force, but he was shielded against any vampiric attack, his skin coated in her and
so not quite touching the Zhent’s.

For good measure, Mirt landed the toe of one boot deep into Manshoon’s crotch with
a solid kick.

“Come after me, worm of a wizard,” he growled to the resulting groaning heap at his
feet, “only if you’re willing to wash dishes. Lots of them, and without breaking a
single one. I don’t know what you did when you were lording it over Zhentil Keep and
Westgate, but Lords of Waterdeep do dishes.”

T
HE WALK-IN LINEN
closet just down the passage from the trophy chamber in Oldspires wasn’t well lit
at the best of times, and at this wee hour of an overcast night, it was darker, as
the saying went, than the immodest insides of a witch, but its glowstone was still
working, after a flickering, fading fashion, generating a very faint luminescence—and
Manshoon and Shaaan didn’t need much light to stand nose to nose, in cold confrontation.

Manshoon was aching from the drubbing Mirt had given him not long ago, and his temper
was short. “Don’t think this truce will save you from humiliating defeat and death
at my hands, when the time comes,” he informed Shaaan in a soft and gently menacing
voice. “And come it will.”