“Priests prate of the Sundering, and the world certainly seems in turmoil enough for nigh any doom crying to seem appropriate, even to the sea level rising to lap at the decking of yer docks down in the harbor here. And I’ve seen the turmoil among your troops. Purple Dragons marching out of the gates, armed Crown messengers riding in and out at all hours, guard posts reinforced everywhere … yet most of my evenings have been enlivened by sitting listening to nobles drink and dispute, and I’ve yet to hear one word out of any of them that suggests the palace is working with the nobility of the realm to strengthen Cormyr’s defenses as all of this gets worse.”
“Well, I hardly think these are the sort of matters they would discuss in front of an outlander. Still less are such topics appropriate for me to-”
“Oh, lad, lad, cut the free-flowing dung before it rises past your chin and chokes you! Even sitting here in Suzail, shuttling my backside between tavern, club, my rented rooms, and brothels, I’ve heard and seen enough to know there’s strife over the throne, and the taking of sides, and the armies of Cormyr are armed and at war here and there and riding hard to some other place. How can I be of help? How can yer nobles, young and restless, as well as old and idle, make the realm stronger? Why aren’t you using us?”
To Mirt’s complete lack of surprise, part of the dark-paneled wall behind the young Crown mage opened soundlessly and two older war wizards stepped into the room, one of them spreading his hand in a swift quelling gesture to prevent his young fellow seated at the desk from replying.
“Forgive us,” the visibly oldest of these two new arrivals-his hair was streaked white at both temples-greeted Mirt politely, “if we are skeptical of your motives. Defending the Forest Kingdom is our task. We ask ourselves, what aboveboard and honorable interest can an outlander, not loyal to the Dragon Throne, have in such matters? There are good reasons such individuals are not normally privy to our deliberations regarding the security of the realm.”
“Fair enough to your latter, though I’ve always found that some public talk of security makes the citizenry feel better about any necessary daily bullying and serves as a warning to those who would do mischief, both visitors and homebodies. As to my motives, tell me if you find fault with my reasoning on this … if Cormyr falls or is weakened into civil strife, every sane inhabitant of Toril is the lesser for it. Yes?”
“Of course, but-”
“Lad,” the unlovely mountain of man filling the chair on the supplicant’s side of the desk told the senior war wizard rather testily, “there is no ‘but’ about it. I am-or was-a ruling lord elsewhere, and I tell you the best rulers are those who care not just for their domain, but all lands. For strife and disaster anywhere has a way of spreading, and sharing its pain, and so does peace and prosperity. If yer so all-fired worried about my possible disloyalty-though from what I’ve overheard, I could hardly be worse than some of yer Cormyr-born-and-bred-these-umpteen-generations nobles-then give me work where treachery is impossible or could do no harm.”
“If we do, you’ll inevitably see and hear and learn too much for the security of Cormyr,” the second of the older war wizards replied flatly.
Mirt gave him an incredulous stare. “The Forest Kingdom’s safety is that shaky? Truly? Well, it would seem to me that you have far greater problems than worrying about the deeds or motives of any individual outlander. And if they arrive in armies, their motives are a trifle obvious.”
“Cormyr’s safety and security are nowhere near ‘shaky,’ as you put it,” the senior war wizard said coldly. “They are merely matters it is foolish to discuss, and needless to imperil in the slightest by involving outlanders.”
“Not so,” purred a new voice. “They are even weaker and more imperiled than Mirt suggests. I came to see to that, but found it unnecessary to do anything at all; the disaster has been waiting to happen here in Cormyr long before my arrival.”
Everyone turned and stared at the smirking, darkly handsome man leaning into the room through another hidden door in the paneling.
“Well met,” Manshoon added politely to Mirt. “Worry not; I’ll not be sending any magic your way this time. Unlike the Forest Kingdom’s Wizards of War, I learn lessons fast.”
He turned his gaze to the three war wizards, and added gently, “You should heed this old man, you know. He’s right. It’s probably too late for your kingdom, but you war wizards may yet surprise me. By doing the right thing for once, for instance.”
With a chuckle and a merry wave, he was gone, the paneling closed and looking as if there had never been a door there.
“Who-? How did he-?” the young war wizard stammered, but his elders were already starting to rush for the panel the unexpected visitor had disappeared through.
“Don’t,” Mirt growled, standing with unexpected haste to hurl his chair at the spot they were about to charge through. “He’ll have left a nasty little spell trap behind. If no one does a dispel on that door and the passage beyond it-”
The chair bounced and clattered, the foremost war wizard batted it aside with a snarl, tripped over it and fell heavily, then bounded to his feet and snatched open the door.
The ear-splitting crack of many lightning bolts erupting from the revealed passage was still echoing in the room when the Crown mage’s smoking body crashed off the far wall and fell to the floor, and the roast-boar-like smell of cooked human flesh started to fill the room.
Mirt sighed. “Men who say ‘I warned you’ are never popular, but I’m going to say it anyway. Idiots. I believe I’ll go find some nobles who’ll listen to me, and we can go and save Cormyr together.”
The guards before the tall, splendid, and firmly shut doors of the palace at the high heart of Thultanthar were barring her way, but the young and darkly beautiful Thultanthan striding up to them with sultry grace never slowed.
In the end, the guards were forced to sidestep toward each other, until their hips almost touched, to physically block her from bursting between them and reaching the doors to the audience chamber of the Most High.
“You may not enter, Lady,” one of them said sternly, raising a magical rod warningly.
She looked back at him steadily, and one raven-dark eyebrow arched in scornful disbelief-or feigned mockery of such emotion.
“Can it be that you do not know who I am?”
That goading question gained no answer, so the visitor said silkily, “I am Manarlume, granddaughter to the Most High. As such, I do not expect to find a door anywhere in Thultanthar closed to me. Ever.”
“And yet,” the other guard said gently, “we have our orders-and accordingly, this door remains closed. With all three of us on this side of it.”
“Who gave you those orders?”
“The Most High himself.”
Manarlume sighed, reaching a hand into her bodice, drew something forth, slid its chain over her head, and held it up.
“You do recognize this?”
She had the satisfaction of seeing one guard’s jaw drop, and the other blink and then stare hard.
Small wonder. There were perhaps a dozen of these tokens in existence, small many-horned metal pendants bearing enchantments that could be felt-as a crawling, clawing presence-from some feet away. Given in secret by the hand of Telamont Tanthul himself, they granted immediate access to the High Prince of Thultanthar at any time, without dispute, explanation, or delay.
One of the guards did as he was supposed to-reach out and touch the token with a cautious fingertip, so its enchantment would show him the image of Telamont and affirm what it meant-but the other asked suspiciously, “How came you by this, Lady?”