The events of this evening had already afforded them much practice in such swift acceptances.
And in a dark and distant chamber, an orphaned speaking-stone was set gently down on a tabletop whose glossy polish rivaled its own. The man who'd put it there toyed idly with a black gem pendant at his throat and turned away to stroll to the window, hum softly up at the winking stars, and think. It was clearly time to consider his second, and far more subtle, plan.
* * * * *
In the tense, crowded cellar in Marsember, the Mage Royal of Cormyr turned to face the Simbul, keeping her balance by resting her fingertips on Rhauligan's shoulder. Lifting her pain-lined face, she locked eyes with the fabled Scourge of Thay.
Against her wild and towering beauty, Caladnei seemed young and of little account—just one more leather-clad Harper among many more menacing veterans. Long-limbed and slender, her dark brown skin almost the hue of the leathers she wore, she regarded the Witch-Queen of Aglarond with large, dark eyes—deep brown, rather than the ruby-red they became when she was angry—and said calmly, "I echo Rhauligan's welcome, but I must respectfully remind both of you, Elminster and Queen Alassra, that in this place, in the absence of Crown Princess and Regent Alusair and Dowager Queen Filfaeril, I am the royal law and voice of Cormyr."
"No dispute there, lass," Elminster murmured, spreading his hands—a movement that made several Harpers nervously raise handbows. Caladnei saw something of this out of the corner of one eye and whirled to give the tense line of Cormyreans a quelling 'down arms' gesture.
Turning back to the two Chosen once more, she drew herself up and said, "And in that wise, in the interests of the realm, I demand the immediate surrender of Narnra Shalace into my keeping—and the as-swift departure of you both from our land, honored Chosen, until times are more settled in Cormyr."
Gods watching over us, woman, but you have backbone and balls both, Rhauligan thought savagely, eyeing the two mighty Chosen in what might be his last moments of life. Your reckless idiocy leaves me despairing but proud of you.
Why, THANK you, most loyal dealer in turret tops and spires, Caladnei's thought echoed in his mind, as sharp as if she was shouting in his ear. Permit me to BE Mage Royal and not merely carry the title around like a costume to be sneered at, hmm? I've two good reasons for this particular reckless idiocy: first, to make the point that must be made, that I happen to hold authority here and no Chosen should think their divine favor gives them sway to do as they please; and because what I've heard from and about this Narnra convinces me that she's much more than she appears—and at the very least could mind-yield a LOT of useful information about current "dark dealings" in Water-deep. I visit your mind, Rhauligan, not to justify myself, but to give you this order: whatever happens, you are to capture this Narnra and bring her back to the most senior surviving Wizards of War, for questioning.
Lady I am honored to serve, Rhauligan thought back quickly, I hear and obey.
"The woman you demand," Elminster observed gently, "is not ours to surrender. I have freed her from my own detention and will defend that freedom, according to her wishes. Moreover, if ye examine no less than six royal decrees and two binding treaties that I know of, preserved in the royal records of Cormyr, I—though not the ruler of Aglarond, I'll grant—have the freedom of the realm and a court rank, by the way, that outstrips thine own."
Caladnei regarded him expressionlessly, her eyes going darker and more red, then said calmly, "This may be so, yet my desires stand." She looked up at the infamous slayer of hundreds of Thayan wizards, still standing on air above her. "It remains my desire not to offend either of you, but I must ask: Queen of Aglarond, what is your response to these my stated desires?"
"You would defy us, child?" the Simbul asked, her voice incredulous but amused.
Elminster looked up at her, and she turned her head to regard him. They looked at each other in silence, thoughts clearly flashing between them.
"Great persons," Caladnei shapped, clear anger in her voice for the first time, "I demand that you hold no private converse but share for us all what you have to say to each other!"
"Demanding, isn't she?" Elminster remarked, not looking at the Mage Royal. "She extended us no such courtesy when giving Rhauligan his order."
"She's young, yet," the Simbul replied tolerantly. They turned their heads in unison to favor Caladnei with identical sweet smiles and—did as she'd demanded.
YOU DO WELL, TO ASK ME DIRECTLY, AND, YES, SHARING OUR CONVERSE WILL BE FOR THE BEST.
A voice that was gentle and yet thunderous rolled through the cellar, sending Cormyreans staggering back with faces going pale and hands faltering in fear. Not one of them needed to be told who that mind-voice belonged to: blue-white and bright in their minds, tinged with bursting and reforming stars of sheer power, it cried "Mystra" into every mind.
* * * * *
The chime he'd been expecting sang its eerie little song just outside the door, and Bezrar scrambled up from his littered desk. He was sweating—but then, Aumun Tholant Bezrar was always sweating. Part of it was because he was, let's grant it before the gods, fat ... and the other reason was because someone whose daily business as an importer and wholesaler of sundry goods involved far more than the usual cartload of smuggling and of stolen goods well, such a one has a very good reason to sweat.
He fumbled aside the bar, the three chains, the two bolts—and flung the door wide. "B'gads, you're here!"
"Stand aside and let me in," Surth's cold voice snapped out of the darkness, "instead of announcing my arrival to the entire neighborhood, you incredible dolt."
Bezrar blinked, chuckled, and hastily shuffled back to make way for his partner. Surth was right, of course. Surth was always right. "Did y'bring the hoods?"
"No, of course I strolled across all Marsember to pay for a special order and forgot to bring them back with me!" Malakar's voice was as thin, sour, and sarcastic as always. "You'll have to cut your own eyeholes—you do have some shears in this sty, don't you?"
Bezrar chuckled rather than stiffening as he would have done in the unlikely event of any other man in Marsember addressing him in this way. Surth was Surth: Malakar Surth, every cold, sinister, and icily superior inch of him. He was tall and lean where Bezrar was not and sour and sarcastic where Bezrar was jovial and cheerfully evil.
Twas dealing in scents, wines, cordials, and drugs until the coins spilled out of your ears that did it—that and worshipping Shar. Bezrar neither liked nor understood Surth's love of cruelty, but there were times when it came in right handy—stop me vitals!—such as, well, now, for instance. He shook out the hood Surth handed him and held it up, preparatory to yanking it over his head.
"Sit down first," Surth advised him coldly. " Twould be less than amusing to see you stumbling around all this chaos putting the point of your shears through an eye—or perhaps me." Surth made the dry little snort that signified he'd uttered a joke and added, "Come on. The night won't last forever, you know!"
"Odd's fish, no!" Bezrar agreed enthusiastically—if in muffled tones—from within the hood. And promptly stumbled backwards to sit down in his chair with a resounding crash. Surth rolled his eyes in disgust as he watched the fat and hairy fingers of one sundry-wholesaling hand grope around among the litter of papers like a drunken spider, seeking the shears that lay ready gleaming less than a fingerlength away.
His own hood was already prepared and—he jerked it down savagely and settled it with an impatient jerk—on. "Bezrar" he said warningly, in tones that produced the expected result: a frantic flurry of activity that sent the wholesaler's chair creaking.
"Yes, yes, aye, yes!" the frantically snipping wholesaler responded, ending with a triumphant, "There!"
"Luminous," Surth told him in a voice that fairly dripped sarcasm down the walls. "Now, shall we—?"
"Yes, yes, of course, b'gads!" The fat wholesaler heaved himself up like a 'walrus conquering a shore-rock, puffed his way toward the door—and halfway there smote his forehead, turned to pinch the lamp out and snatch up his ready-scabbarded longknife—a truly impressive specimen of the curved Marsemban fish-gutting blade—and turned back to his partner with the sudden question, "What if they're not there?"
Surth set his teeth. "Then we'll try again another night," he explained patiently. 'Wo one swindles ten thousand in gold from Mai—from us and lives to whistle away with it."
"But . . . but what if they are there but are ready for us? With dark spells, say?"
Malakar Surth put his hand to the door and replied, "I have a ... business associate who can step in, if need be."
"Eh? What kind of a 'business associate'?"
The tall, thin shadow silhouetted in the nightgloom of the doorway murmured, "Bezrar, the time for silence is come. Of my associate, let's just say, his spells are darker."
* * * * *
Narnra swallowed, or tried to, but seemed to be floating in calmness, in the midst of glory, enthralled by that great yet gentle voice. So this is a god. . . .
Slack-mouthed in awe, most of the War Wizards went to their knees in the cellars as the thunderous voice of their goddess rolled and echoed around them. The Harpers stood staring wide-eyed at the two Chosen, in hopes that they'd see something—however brief and fleeting—of the Mother of All Magic.
Something awakened in Narnra's mind as she crouched, trembling in awe, something that seemed to find and sort through seven blue-white stars curiously . . . then smile in an echo of the earlier smile that had washed through the Silken Shadow.
Narnra Shalace wept inwardly, frozen like stone, as Mystra regarded her personally and let new blue-white fire flood into those stars, leaving her quivering. . . .
Which was why she was the only person in the room who did not hear every syllable of Mystra's mind-voice:
AS A SMITH TESTS AND TEMPERS A BLADE, THE DESIGNS OF THE MAGES OF THAY CAN AND SHOULD BE RESISTED AT EVERY TURN—YET IT IS MY WILL THAT THAY'S INCREASED MERCANTILE SPREAD OF MAGIC CONTINUE, FOR NOW. YOU WERE RIGHT TO SLAY THESE, ALASSRA, BUT TO JOURNEY NOW TO THAY AND INDULGE IN SLAUGHTER OF OTHER RED WIZARDS WOULD BE WRONG. THEY'LL OFFER YOU SPORT IN AGLAROND ITSELF SOON ENOUGH.
A MORE IMPORTANT CONCERN IS FOR YOU, ELMINSTER, TO DEAL WITH: YOUR ONETIME PUPIL, VANGERDAHAST. HE'S NEITHER AS FEEBLE NOR AS FORGETFUL AS HE'S LED CALADNEI TO BELIEVE. MAKE SURE, EL, THAT HE'S TRULY CONSIDERED ALL IMPLICATIONS OF HIS UNFOLDING PLANS AND ISN'T JUST BEING SELFISH. FOR ME TO PRY WOULD BE TO RUIN HIS WORK—AND FURTHER ENDANGER CORMYR.
Most of the Cormyreans in the cellar were cowering or shaking with awe at the sheer weight and power of Mystra's presence, as her mind-voice thundered on. They were too enthralled to faint or become numbed. The mere contact made every mind alert and afire—but Mystra's last sentence was the first that made the Mage Royal of Cormyr go pale.
The greatest state secret of the realm, laid bare before all.
She swayed, feeling sick, and fought down the sudden urge to cry. After all the secrecy, innocent folk mind-blasted or slain to make them forget what they'd seen, and the torment of facing nobles and War Wizards and courtiers, all hostile, before she was ready ... all that work swept away in an instant.