Semoor looked down at his belt where it was supposed to be-and wasn’t-and then back up at her, dumbfounded.
Doust touched the back of Pennae’s neck. He sprang back as she whirled to face him and snapped, “ Catch her, Florin!”
Florin shot out one long arm and got hold of Pennae’s shoulder as her spin turned into a topple. She was senseless, eyes wide and staring.
“You used magic on her,” Islif said.
Doust nodded, yawning. “I’m too tired for her nonsense just now.”
Islif gave him a cold look. “So am I, as it happens, but I think you and Semoor are going to sit down with the rest of us and have a long talk about any of us using magic on each other without agreement aforehand.”
Semoor frowned. “Oh? What about her?” He pointed at Jhessail.
“She,” Islif said, “isn’t an idiot. You two, I’m increasingly not so sure about.”
“Well,” Semoor observed with a bright smile, “ that’s reassuring.”
Chapter 10
The Realms tremble whenever
The last six or so of the Nine Hells
Break loose again
To spill their latest bloodshed
Any fool can scream and die then.
The trick is to notice, earlier,
When the first few Hells silently gape wide
Dark smiles heralding the doom to come.
Laspeera rose with the ring in her hand, face expressionless, and told the lionar and the first sword quietly, “You were right to summon me.”
“Someone was spell-blasted here,” the lionar said grimly.
She lifted a finger to tap her lips and warned him, “You didn’t say that, and you won’t say that again. Anyone who hears you might just be the one who decides it’s necessary to silence you forever.”
“Does-does the ring identify who died?” the first sword asked. “There can’t be that many unicorn-head rings like that.”
The lionar gave him a sharp look. “There aren’t. They’re worn by all alarphons in the war wizards.”
Laspeera nodded. “Of whom, it seems, we now have one fewer in the service of the realm.”
“ Three fewer, actually,” Ghoruld Applethorn purred into the glow arising from his scrying crystal, “but who’s counting? Any moment now you’ll remember I’m the senior alarphon, and should know where all the others are. Idiot novices like Lacklar included.”
He turned to look at the row of fingerbones in the open coffer behind him, and added with a crooked smile, “And as it happens: I do.”
Tarnsar’s Platters was one of the better dining-houses on the Promenade-good food, attentive staff, and pleasant decor, without the breath-robbing prices of the truly haughty establishments. As a result, it was always crowded to the doors, and nigh-deafening with the chatter and clatters of hundreds of excited Suzailans.
Two men having the appearance of middling years and wealth pushed and sidled patiently through the crowded passages of the Platters, seeking a certain back room where strangers off the street seeking to dine weren’t customarily seated. They knew two young war wizards were wont to dine there, in a curtained-off back alcove of that room, and enjoy a quiet post-prandial game of lanceboard.
Reaching the archway they sought, they slipped through door-curtains enspelled to quell all sound, into the dimly lit, seemingly deserted room beyond. Then they padded as quietly as they knew how-which was very quietly-to the booth nearest the alcove, and settled down to listen.
“… and this Elminster had written in the margins!” a young voice murmured indignantly. “Right in His Majesty’s book! The gall of the man!”
“He’s legendary for that,” a voice that sounded as young, but more nasal-and calm-replied. “What did he write?”
“Well, I copied it out, to study and make sure ’twasn’t a code, or some such. He wrote: ‘The death of an old hero, gone toothless, is not tragic. It may seem so, but the tired old bones are at peace, in pain and loss no more. The bards and minstrels and those who spin tales in taverns have been handed the freedom to make the hero what they want him to be, glowing giant or otherwise, unfettered by such inconveniences as the truth.’ I mean, how trite! Does he think no one but him has ever thought such thoughts before?”
“You’ve never taken Alaphondar’s ‘High History of the Realm’ classes, have you?”
“No! Crashing old bore! Why?”
“You would have heard that Elminster wrote that over twelve hundred years ago, for the eyes of King Duar, when Duar was but a lad and grieving over the passing of various grand old lords at Court. If you flip through some of the other volumes that used to be Duar’s, you’ll find some far more, ah, fascinating advice.”
“Oh? Such as?”
“How and when to get royal heirs-and how not to. The arts of pleasuring others, and the best ways to refuse without offending.”
“You’re jesting! Old Nastyspells giving advice on wenching? ”
“Huh. If that makes you incredulous, picture him doing so to a young and callow Vangey!”
“Mystra spew! Gods Above and Below! I… I…”
There followed a tapping sound that might have been a fingernail on a hard-polished lanceboard, and the other war wizard chuckled and added, “I suppose this is as good a time as any to point out that your seneschal is imperiled by both of my champions.”
What? Tluin! Armandras, you sly bastard! ”
“Why, Corlyn, you credulous ramhorn-head!” Armandras sounded amused. “ Such endearments!”
The two listeners looked at each other, nodded, and retreated to the doorway as quietly as they had come. The moment the two war wizards fell silent again, they advanced down the room once more, pushing past some chairs noisily.
“In here,” Harreth stage-whispered to Yorlin, as they headed straight for the curtain. “No one can overhear us in here.”
The two agents of Lord Yellander took a table just the other side of the curtain from the one that must be hosting that customary game of lanceboard, where the hidden war wizards couldn’t help but overhear them.
“Right,” Yorlin said excitedly, leaning forward across the table. “This is private enough, so out with it, man! What’s this so-secret news?”
“Ever heard of Emmaera?”
“Who?”
“Better known as Dragonfire. Long-dead, practiced her magic around Halfhap? No?”
“ ‘Dragonfire’ I heard once or twice, years back… something about animated swords, I think. A legend, not anything Vangey found useful.”
“ That’s the one! Well, the swords are real-and they’ve been found! What’s more, they’re guarding Emmaera’s treasure, all her spellbooks and wands and such, that’ve been rumored in Halfhap to lie hidden here, there, and everywhere for years! ”
“So who’s the lucky finder, and when will he show up to blast us all to feast-meat?”
“Well, that’s just it: no one has all the magic-yet. Y’see, there’s this old inn in Halfhap, the Oldcoats Inn, and it has the usual old, damp cellars. Well, some of them, on one side of things, have been getting a lot damper. So they wanted to dig out more space, for storage, over on the dry side. Which is when, about a tenday back, they found that one of those old cellar walls was just a single stone deep.”
“Someone threw up a wall across one end of a room to hide its back half.”
“Exactly! Well, behind that wall are a heap of chests and coffers and spellbooks and cloaks and wands and I don’t know what all-but no one can get close to them.”
“Some sort of flesh-eating field? Or a spell that fills the air with hungry snapping jaws when you try to step forward?”
“No, better than that! That’s where the swords come in! Emmaera Dragonfire put a ring of flying swords around her treasure to guard it, and the swords burn with all-consuming dragonfire! The innkeeper paid his pot-boy to put on armor and try to get to the treasure, and the swords cut through it and his body under it like he was smoke! He was smoke, too, in less than a breath! A little ash on the floor was all that was left of him!”