beams that had been “improved” by the—mostly rude—carvings of many previous patrons’ belt knives. His eyes wandered over a few of them as he replied, “This is certainly elsewhere, I’ll give ye that.”
“You,” Mirt growled, “want something. Aside from me to have this free tankard of no doubt excellent ale, that is.”
“I am as transparent as always,” El replied serenely.
“Well?”
“How would ye like to be the seneschal and cook for a country lord of Cormyr gone mindless? For a tenday or less, but not more?”
“What’s the pay like?”
“Generous,” El replied, sliding a slender whetstone case of oiled and polished wood across the table. Mirt shielded it within practiced hands as he opened it just enough to see the row of large sapphires inside for a moment; in the next instant, it had vanished up his sleeve.
“Indeed. So how many archmages or eye tyrants or awakened and angry dragons will I be fighting—or roasting for his lordship’s table?”
Elminster shrugged. “The future hides so much from us all.”
Mirt snorted. “Indeed. ’Splain, Old Mage. If I’m walking into a lion’s den, I like to know how many lions are waiting, and how hungry they are.”
“Lord Halaunt is an unwed old nobl—”
“ Him . Haughty old ironbottom who came to town to sell the Lost Spell to anyone with more coins than brains. Didn’t end well. Someone got him out of that fire, then?”
“Someone did. Not before spells had made him witless, probably forever. He was bundled back to his mansion in the country in some haste. Thy new friend Manshoon—”
Mirt snorted again.
“—and half a dozen other powerful wizards subsequently showed up on his doorstep and tried to get inside, but have been prevented from doing so by a, uh, spellstorm that has thus far kept them out.”
“But you, of course, can get me in. Why me? I’ll be naught but a swift target for mages with blasting spells up their sleeves.”
“Ye, because I need someone to play seneschal and actually cook, for those very mages and for me and some others I’ll be bringing with me, who’ll handle any spellwork any of us manage. Which shouldn’t be much; magic isn’t to be trusted inside the Halaunt mansion.”
“Or anywhere else, for that matter. Which others?”
“Two ye should have heard of: Myrmeen Lhal and the Princess Alusair—or rather, her ghost.”
Mirt took a long pull from the tankard, set it back down with a satisfied sigh, belched, and observed, “This sounds like a right disaster in the making, El. So, why?”
“Mystra wants it.”
“Wants mages to kill each other, and no doubt destroy the mansion and the vicinity while they’re at it? I thought she wanted magic preserved and nurtured and spread out among us all!”
“She does. This gathering of the powerful is an attempt to instill in them some sort of inner personal creed or code, so they’ll instinctively work against the reckless excesses of others who wield magic.”
“And if they somehow, incredibly, do decide to work together—and come charging out of the place welded into a tiny army of spell-hurling mages bent on destroying all of Cormyr that they can’t conquer? What then?”
“Outside the spellstorm, once all of the mages are safely inside the mansion, a force of Cormyr’s war wizards will assemble and cast a wall of force around it all. A great ring to keep warriors with knives and grudges against wizards out, and the mages—who can’t successfully hurl disintegrating spells through the spellstorm at this ring—in. Mystra will make sure the ring works, even if someone miscasts, or the coordination of the Crown mages involved is less than perfect.”
“Penning— imprisoning —a bunch of egotistical, ruthless, used to getting their own way in everything wizards together, in hopes that rather than tear each other’s eyeballs out, they’ll fall into firm friendships and everlasting trust.”
“Aye,” El said dryly,
“You,” Mirt growled, “want something. Aside from me to have this free tankard of no doubt excellent ale, that is.”
“I am as transparent as always,” El replied serenely.
“Well?”
“How would ye like to be the seneschal and cook for a country lord of Cormyr gone mindless? For a tenday or less, but not more?”
“What’s the pay like?”
“Generous,” El replied, sliding a slender whetstone case of oiled and polished wood across the table. Mirt shielded it within practiced hands as he opened it just enough to see the row of large sapphires inside for a moment; in the next instant, it had vanished up his sleeve.
“Indeed. So how many archmages or eye tyrants or awakened and angry dragons will I be fighting—or roasting for his lordship’s table?”
Elminster shrugged. “The future hides so much from us all.”
Mirt snorted. “Indeed. ’Splain, Old Mage. If I’m walking into a lion’s den, I like to know how many lions are waiting, and how hungry they are.”
“Lord Halaunt is an unwed old nobl—”
“ Him . Haughty old ironbottom who came to town to sell the Lost Spell to anyone with more coins than brains. Didn’t end well. Someone got him out of that fire, then?”
“Someone did. Not before spells had made him witless, probably forever. He was bundled back to his mansion in the country in some haste. Thy new friend Manshoon—”
Mirt snorted again.
“—and half a dozen other powerful wizards subsequently showed up on his doorstep and tried to get inside, but have been prevented from doing so by a, uh, spellstorm that has thus far kept them out.”
“But you, of course, can get me in. Why me? I’ll be naught but a swift target for mages with blasting spells up their sleeves.”
“Ye, because I need someone to play seneschal and actually cook, for those very mages and for me and some others I’ll be bringing with me, who’ll handle any spellwork any of us manage. Which shouldn’t be much; magic isn’t to be trusted inside the Halaunt mansion.”
“Or anywhere else, for that matter. Which others?”
“Two ye should have heard of: Myrmeen Lhal and the Princess Alusair—or rather, her ghost.”
Mirt took a long pull from the tankard, set it back down with a satisfied sigh, belched, and observed, “This sounds like a right disaster in the making, El. So, why?”
“Mystra wants it.”
“Wants mages to kill each other, and no doubt destroy the mansion and the vicinity while they’re at it? I thought she wanted magic preserved and nurtured and spread out among us all!”
“She does. This gathering of the powerful is an attempt to instill in them some sort of inner personal creed or code, so they’ll instinctively work against the reckless excesses of others who wield magic.”
“And if they somehow, incredibly, do decide to work together—and come charging out of the place welded into a tiny army of spell-hurling mages bent on destroying all of Cormyr that they can’t conquer? What then?”
“Outside the spellstorm, once all of the mages are safely inside the mansion, a force of Cormyr’s war wizards will assemble and cast a wall of force around it all. A great ring to keep warriors with knives and grudges against wizards out, and the mages—who can’t successfully hurl disintegrating spells through the spellstorm at this ring—in. Mystra will make sure the ring works, even if someone miscasts, or the coordination of the Crown mages involved is less than perfect.”
“Penning— imprisoning —a bunch of egotistical, ruthless, used to getting their own way in everything wizards together, in hopes that rather than tear each other’s eyeballs out, they’ll fall into firm friendships and everlasting trust.”
“Aye,” El said dryly,
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