Alusair went in through the rooms to submit to the deft and deferential attentions of the chambermaids. They seemed in awe of her, for once, but this night that gave her no pleasure. She was too restless, too apprehensive that there would be consequences, and all for nothing. The Harper might have forgotten his promise or be half Faerun away from hearing her entreaty-or lying wounded or even dead somewhere, never to answer any summons again.
Lying in her bed in the dark, that same restlessness kept its hold over her, and she tossed and turned for what seemed like an eternity.
She must have fallen asleep in the end-because she certainly came awake when a male whisper asked softly into her ear, "You wanted me, Highness?"
The wizard Targon stood alone on the high balcony of a tower in Zhentil Keep, glaring out into the night. It wasn't something Targon often did, but then there was no one near to see him doing it and think his behavior strange.
Old. Ghost made his new host body smile wryly. 'Twasn't all that surprising, this lack of spying Zhentarim, given just how many Horaundoon had slaughtered before word had properly spread to bring down any official wariness.
Right now, it was taking all Old Ghost's will to reach across the distance between them and tug the unwilling flying sword back from even more happy slayings. Armaukran was a thirsty blade, and Horaundoon, it seemed, really hated a lot of Zhentarim.
Wherefore it was time-and more than time-for them to talk.
The warding spell Targon had cast around himself was ready to turn aside Armaukran's piercing point and deadly edge if the blade somehow outpaced his ability to govern Horaundoon's will, but Old Ghost really didn't think Horaundoon would be that stupid.
The sword came streaking out of the night with a flourish, arrowing poinr-first but then sweeping up, twisting in the air, and coming to an abrupt but silent stop in the air just out of reach of Targon, vertical with hilt uppermost.
"Well met," Old Ghost said.
"I'm finding I enjoy removing unworthy elements from the Brotherhood," was the response. "I hunger to eliminate more."
"I'll return you to that delight soon enough," Old Ghost told the sword. "How many have you slain? And who, specifically?"
"Fourscore and a few," Horaundoon replied. "Harkult and old Gesker and some magelings who were fawning over them, paltry wizards I knew not. No one else I can put a name to, but many, many priesrs of Bane, mostly underpriests because I could catch them alone and unseen-oh, and one little spy."
Targon lifted one eyebrow in silent query, and the sword explained, "A beholderkin the size of my fist or a little smaller. A little floating eyeball that was hovering by the shoulder of a wizard who got away."
Old Ghost made his host body nod. "He wasn't the only one to escape you. Your work is causing tumult in the Brotherhood, with every Zhent suspicious of his fellows and many of the senior wizards conducting their own 'investigations' into who's behind the slayings."
"Dozens of futile inquiries, yes. One Brother suspecting all his fellows of meaning him murderous ill is hardly unusual, but the elder Zhentarim have started giving orders and handing me an increasing problem. They are retreating inside warded and spell-guarded fortresses and sending their greenest magelings and most lowly acolytes out to do Zhent business. It is slowing and crippling Brotherhood work but leaving me with few targets worth slaughtering. More than that, Manshoon seems to have gone missing. Many senior Zhentarim have tried to contact him and met with only silence."
Old Ghost shrugged. What mattered it, if Horaundoon knew this? He shared something that had for years been his host body's greatest fear and secret, one that Targon knew would someday bring about his death, very soon after the moment Manshoon discovered he knew it. "That silence is almost certainly real. Manshoon is probably off on one of his little magic-gathering forays."
"Gaining new magic is certainly a good way to remain atop the Brotherhood, yes," Horaundoon agreed. "What forays, exactly?"
Old Ghost discovered with some amusement that Targon's fingers were drumming idly on the stone balcony rail. So this body retained some will of its own, after all. He must take care to remember that.
"From the days before there was a Black Brotherhood," he explained, "Manshoon had the habit of venturing alone around Faerun, usually in disguise, to ah… explore. It's how he first met the eye tyrants, I believe. Translocation spells and old portals are handy things."
"Go places, find those with magic you want, kill them, return home with the loot."
"Not a new strategy for any of us," Old Ghost agreed. "Long, long ago there was a kingdom in the north of what is now-nominally- Cormyr. Occupying most of the Stonelands and a little of the land-along the Ride north of the Hullack."
"Esparin."
"Esparin. And kingdoms often have palaces. Now, not quite so long ago, Cormyr had a king named Duar, who had to fight for his throne against a conspiracy that ruled most of Cormyr for a time."
"Executing or exiling the nobles who conspired against him," Horaundoon replied. "I have been told about the reign of Duar Obarskyr. Civil strife means wizards killed and magic hastily hidden."
"Indeed. So we have the Lost Palace of Esparin, which has remained lost because it lies hidden underground-somewhere under the Stonelands. We also have one particular noble family out of the dozen-some who were exiled for their deeds against King Duar. The Staghearts, now extinct. Which means the Crown owns the old, ruined Stagheart mansion but is unaware that it is linked by portals to the palace. More than that, Vangerdahast and his war wizards are unaware of these portals, too, or they and the Obarskyrs would never have let the place fall into ruin and be swallowed by Cormyr's ever-vigorous forests."
"So Manshoon knows this way into the Lost Palace?"
Targon nodded. "For years, Manshoon has been occasionally slipping into the Lost Palace of Esparin to explore, and he has plundered it of many magic items and old spellbooks."
"So if I were to get into this Lost Palace…"
"No," Old Ghost said. "Put out of your mind thoughts of becoming mightier than me by picking up magics that lie waiting in those halls. You'll find your own doom instead. The Palace has… complications."
"That you're going to keep from me, aren't you?" Horaundoon asked, more thoughtfully than bitterly.
"No," Old Ghost said, "but they certainly exist and close that particular door to both of us. Wherefore I'd prefer to discuss what you should do first and only then chat about, ah, romantic fancies."
"Very well. So Manshoon is in hiding and so are all the other most powerful Zhents, leaving me only worthless magelings to kill. While the beholders and the Bane priests and the most senior wizards all try to find or craft magics to find and destroy me."
"Well put. So we must make that tumult of yours shake them right out of doing so by making it much greater. I believe the best way to flush the most powerful out into the open is to hand the Brotherhood either a real crisis or a real opportunity. A war with Cormyr, perhaps…"
Old Ghost could feel Horaundoon's mind swirl with incredulous, eager delight. "Which you're going to cause how?"
"Through your strict obedience to my orders," Old Ghost said. "I am sending you to find and slay any of the Knights of Myth Drannor and to seize the Pendant of Ashaba. You will then bring it back here, by means of its chain looped about your blade, so Zhenril Keep can openly lay claim to Shadowdale. I-that is, this body I inhabit-can handle that." "While I-?"
"You will already have slipped back into Cormyr to do a little more butchery."