“And what am I supposed to do?” Mirt growled.
“We’ll need you if they’re female guards or pompous servants,” Storm said brightly.
No one challenged them or even showed a face from the Stormserpent mansion as they slipped into the darkened and deserted stables. El borrowed Storm’s dagger, kindled the faint glowstone in its pommel, and went straight to a corner where an old carriage stood at such a lean that it was obviously not usable. Beneath it was a torn and huddled heap of rotten awnings, thick with dust and the litter of many mouse nests.
“We hide the magic that Glathra and her hounds can trace here,” he announced in a whisper. “Then go.”
They did that, in smooth haste. Storm gave both El and Mirt Harper ironguard rings to wear, and they were back out on the road with the still-paralyzed Arclath to continue their journey to Delcastle Manor in the space of a few breaths.
Mirt looked back seven times, but the Stormserpent gates never closed.
Targrael marched along the sweeping street as if she owned it. She was, after all, a Highknight of Cormyr- the senior Highknight of the realm, regardless of what the living thought-and watch patrols of this wealthy neighborhood of noble mansions were frequent and apt to pounce on skulkers. The haughty, however, they’d learned to treat with respect.
She’d already been several streets south, on the far side of the Promenade, seeking Manshoon-for if he found her before she found him, she’d be swiftly back into slavery. In her fist was a palace gem, a very old Obarskyr treasure. Gifted by elves, so the tales ran. Most of what it did had been forgotten, but it functioned as a keen detector of awakened Art, close by.
Manshoon was far from the only spellhurler apt to be busy this night, in this city crowded with nobles and afire with scheming intrigue, but Targrael knew his love for constant spying, and walked the streets hoping the gem would catch the steady flows of Art that attended multiple scrying eyes.
Yet she found none.
She’d become increasingly mindful that with every step she took she gave the old vampire more opportunity to notice her. And that the longer the gem was missing from where it should be, in Duar’s Retiring Room, the greater the likelihood that wizards of war would come looking for her.
It was probably best to rethink this bold searching, return the gem, and hide herself in the haunted wing. Yet, she might as well pass Stormserpent Towers on her way back and try the gem there. Manshoon had spent much time riding the feckless Stormserpent lord recently, and even if the young fool had more than earned his own violent disposal, there remained the matter of the blueflame ghosts and his ownership of items that controlled them.
She’d have to be swift. The nobles’ streets were well-nigh deserted-though she’d caught a distant glimpse of three revelers carrying a wounded or more likely drunken companion home-and Manshoon was as likely as anyone else to take an interest in the wealthy and powerful and the uses he could make of them.
Coming round the curve, she saw something that almost made her stop in surprise-and after a moment of hesitation, quicken her stride. The gates of Stormserpent Towers stood open.
Almost all of the grander mansions had high walls around their grounds to keep out thieves. Not to mention persistent hawkers or creditors and unwanted, garden-trampling gawkers. Those who had such expensive barriers tended to use them, especially by night. If a carriage or greatcoach wasn’t about to enter or depart, gates would be firmly closed and locked. To see an unsecured entrance and no servants standing watchfully by the opened gates was unusual.
No watch patrol behind her, and none to be seen ahead. There were no side streets near, and the unbroken line of mansion walls afforded no cover for a patrol-or anyone else-to lurk, ready to pounce.
So with head held high and shoulders back, Targrael strode right up to the gates and into the grounds of Stormserpent Towers, as if the gates had been left open for her.
Six strides in along the deserted, night-shrouded carriageway, the gem in her hand warmed slightly. Not the flare of active spells nor the steady rise in temperature that heralded the nearness of always-functioning wards, but a sharper, smaller kindling.
There was palace magic here! A small amount of it, but nearby and very recently arrived…
Targrael frowned. Then she took a step to the left. Yes. Turning, she crossed the width of the carriageway, onto the lawn to the right. No, fainter, so back to the left.
The house rose straight ahead, though of course the carriageway reached it in a series of long, graceful curves. Off to the left, just past this stand of duskwoods, was… the stables.
Targrael went into a crouch and turned sharply to the left, departing the carriageway for a stretch of lawn that would let her go around behind the duskwood bower, to reach the stables from the side or rear.
If a watch patrol or any inquisitive war wizards were lurking in the stables, she wanted to see them before they saw her.
Once behind the trees and closer to the stables-which loomed up dark, silent, and seemingly deserted-the gem in her hand grew warmer with every step she took.
Could Elminster be up to his old tricks, thieving palace magic? Or was this his cache of stolen enchantments? A walled noble compound wasn’t the hiding place she would have chosen, but perhaps he intended that if his loot was discovered, the Stormserpents would be blamed.
For years he’d posed as old Elgorn Rhauligan, working at the palace with his sister-Storm Silverhand, his fellow refugee from the service of fallen Mystra. They were still working together, weren’t they?
Aside from a few scurrying mice, the stables were deserted. The gem led Targrael straight to a small sack of rings and wands. Sleep wands, except for one that blasted and one that spat sticky webs. War wizard issue.
So unless a cabal of Crown mages was plotting something, these were stolen.
Most likely by Elminster and Storm, or some Stormserpent servant. Not by Marlin Stormserpent; that one would take them inside his walls and hide them somewhere in the mansion he thought was secure, behind all its wards and shieldings.
Frowning, Targrael put the sack back as she’d found it, covered it again with the long-decayed awning, and stood pondering. Should she seek Storm Silverhand around Suzail? Lush of figure, beautiful, and with that long silver hair, it was more likely a man would notice her than either Elminster or Manshoon-particularly if those wise old mages didn’t want to be noticed.
Should she try to find such noticing persons and question them?
Or do the wiser thing, return to the palace, hide, and work on her patience?
“Bah!” she told the night loudly, turning on her heel.
The wiser, patient thing for once.
Huh. Undead or not, death knight or no, she must be getting old.
Manshoon slid eagerly back into his darkly handsome human body. Beholderkin were fine, better than drifting along ghostlike as vampires could, but he liked to be solid and in the sort of body he’d been born with, when it came time for serious thinking.
It was time right now, here in the cellar of the alchemist. A squalid place by some reckonings, and he’d certainly known more luxurious surroundings-he still missed the soaring gloom of his Tower High back in Zhentil Keep, even after all these years-but increasingly it was starting to feel like home.
His scrying globes glowed patiently as he sat up, ran his gaze over them all to make sure nothing really alarming was unfolding anywhere-nothing was-and sat back to ponder.
So his old foe was alive, or perhaps undead. Elminster was back in Suzail, back with Storm Silverhand. Not destroyed, after all.
And not, so far as he could tell, preparing to smite one Manshoon.