hair.
Their slayer gazed down at the crisped bodies with a thoughtful air.
These had been Netherese—overconfident emptyheads, young and inexperienced even among
the deluded and preening Thultanthans. Of course they had failed at a task one step
beyond “utterly simple.”
He had none of those faults, and a kindling interest in something that lured so many
long-lived mages of power. It was time to try his own luck at Oldspires.
CHAPTER 4
It’s All Up To You
M IRT INSPECTED THE BOTTOM OF HIS TANKARD, FOUND IT EMPTY , and stirred himself to call for more.
He was just drawing breath when a fresh tankard descended to the smooth-worn tabletop
in front of him, then slid forward to come to a gentle stop under his nose.
He regarded it, and then the gaunt, white-bearded man behind it, and grew a slow smile.
“Heh. It’s been awhile, Old Mage. Well met.”
“Well met again,” Elminster replied dryly, sitting down. “I see ye’ve grown tired
of the company of nobles.”
Mirt grunted and reached for the tankard. “Their
chatter
. Drives a man to drink—elsewhere.”
Elminster surveyed the dim and none-too-clean surroundings. The ceiling of this particular
dockside tavern taproom was low, and braced with many old, stout, and diagonal 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
Their slayer gazed down at the crisped bodies with a thoughtful air.
These had been Netherese—overconfident emptyheads, young and inexperienced even among
the deluded and preening Thultanthans. Of course they had failed at a task one step
beyond “utterly simple.”
He had none of those faults, and a kindling interest in something that lured so many
long-lived mages of power. It was time to try his own luck at Oldspires.
CHAPTER 4
It’s All Up To You
M IRT INSPECTED THE BOTTOM OF HIS TANKARD, FOUND IT EMPTY , and stirred himself to call for more.
He was just drawing breath when a fresh tankard descended to the smooth-worn tabletop
in front of him, then slid forward to come to a gentle stop under his nose.
He regarded it, and then the gaunt, white-bearded man behind it, and grew a slow smile.
“Heh. It’s been awhile, Old Mage. Well met.”
“Well met again,” Elminster replied dryly, sitting down. “I see ye’ve grown tired
of the company of nobles.”
Mirt grunted and reached for the tankard. “Their
chatter
. Drives a man to drink—elsewhere.”
Elminster surveyed the dim and none-too-clean surroundings. The ceiling of this particular
dockside tavern taproom was low, and braced with many old, stout, and diagonal 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
Similar Books
