Vangerdahast cut through it with one word that brought utter silence down again in an instant, probably with the aid of his magic: “ However. ”
He let the silence deepen, and added, “This is what we who serve the Crown of Cormyr do. This peril is now ended, and we have a most distinguished guest at our Court, and our attention should now be upon celebrating her embassy to us, our joy at her presence among us, and her every need.”
He paused to stroll around Lord Spurbright and Lady Summerwood, as they murmured to each other, lips still locked together and eyes closed.
“As,” the Royal Magician then added dryly, “our most dedicated agent Lord Elvarr Spurbright is so ably attending to.”
Vangerdahast stepped back with a smile, and raised his arms to encourage the roar of mirth that followed. It rocked the hall, ringing deafeningly around the high vaulted ceiling and balconies-and when it began to diminish, a long breath later, he roared, “So let us have revelry! ”
And the noise really began.
In the depths of that din, Pennae ducked back in among the Knights, grinned, and arched one eyebrow in the direction of the Royal Magician. “Did he actually say that? ‘A dastardly plot’?”
“Dastardly,” Semoor assured her solemnly. “Those are the worst kind.”
Penna astonished him then by throwing her arms around him and kissing him.
Beldos Margaster drew in a breath of deep relief as he reached the portal to the ruined inn in Halfhap. Not only was it unguarded, but-if he was right-he’d reached it unseen. Now, if only this coffer of magical necessities, coins, and gems wasn’t so hrasted heavy.
He strode forward, the moment of falling endlessly through chill blue mists followed, and then he was…
Standing under the open sky with the hovels and battered old shops of Halfhap all around him-amid the sagging ruins of what had been the Oldcoats Inn. Tumbled beams, splintered furniture, sagging upper floors all twisted and fire-blackened, and Wood creaked nearby. Margaster turned toward the sound and found himself staring into the hard faces of two grim, wounded Zhentilar warriors. Judging by the sacks of pans, kitchen knives, and the like they were carrying, they’d been camping out in the ruins trying to plunder anything of value. They both bore notched, well-used swords in their other hands.
Giving him stony looks, they hefted those blades and lurched toward him, spreading apart so as to come at him from two directions.
Margaster gave them a sneer and a swiftly hurled slaying spell-and got it right back in his face, as rings on their hands winked in unison.
Gods, the pain!
Staggering in agony, Beldos Margaster turned and fled, scrambling as swiftly as he could across the slippery chaos of the tumbled and fallen inn.
Chuckling grimly, the Zhents pursued him, moving more carefully. They knew there was nowhere for one old man whose spells couldn’t touch them to run, to escape them.
Margaster, however, knew exactly where another portal stood. Whether there was still an inn standing around it or not, just ahead-here! — was one of the portals to Lord Yellander’s hunting lodge. He plunged through it gratefully, greeting the blue mists once more for the brief moment that always seemed surprisingly long, and then stepped out into the hunting lodge. It’d be deserted, of course. He spared it not a glance, but whirled around and cast a spell that would close the portal forever, and hand him safety from brutish warriors.
It was a powerful magic, and a long one. Beldos Margaster had just triumphantly pronounced its last word when he heard crossbows crack in ragged unison behind him, and the hum of a volley of converging bolts rising angrily in his ears.