tmp0 Read online

  He drew breath for the Great Invocation. Only Fzoul could speak it, by tradition, but Fzoul had neglected to forbid Elthaulin from doing it in his absence, and Lord Bane would not be pleased by its omission. Then he stopped in confusion, peering at the back of the chancel. Underpriests had left their places by the doors and were running in the gloom of the sanctuary, stopping to bend over priests in the congregation. Priests were rising and leaving their places.

  What is going on?

  In shock, he realized he'd asked that question aloud and grins were forming on more than one of the uplifted faces below. Fury washed over him, and Elthaulin strode to the edge of the raised dais and sent his voice booming out over the confusion, "Who dares disturb the worship of Bane, Lord Over All?" Abruptly he recognized the face of one of the priests hurrying up the central aisle, and his expression grew pale.

  Fzoul snapped at him in a voice that carried to the far corners of the chancel, "Oh, stop that nonsense, Elthaulin. Bane has heard you and is deeply appreciative. This service of worship is now at an end. I need all priests of the rank of Trusted Servant or greater to assemble in the Robing Room, Watchful Brothers, guard the doors of the temple; all who have not taken the robes of Bane are to be escorted out. The Deadly Adepts are in charge, Haste or perish!"

  There were raised voices, and even screams, from the lay worshippers, but others left as slowly as they were allowed, enjoying the sight of priests of Bane actually running and looking startled and upset, Elthaulin let his faerie fire slowly fade, and he stood watching.

  Fzoul turned on his heel without another word to his Priest of the Chancel, and headed for the Robing Room, priests thickly clustered around him.

  Elthaulin kept his face carefully calm, but no one who looked at his eyes could have missed his murderous glare, directed at the retreating Fzoul. His dark eyes flamed almost as fiercely as the Black Hand of Bane behind him over the lesser altar. The altar was giving off black fire, the first direct sign from Dread Lord Bane in over a year. It was a pity no one noticed it.

  In the Robing Room, Fzoul turned and held up his hands for silence. His head still throbbed painfully; the wild spellblast that had brought his bookcase crashing down on him had been one of the last hurled by the beholders in Spell Court. By the time he'd come to on the floor beside his desk, it was all over-the maid Shandril had vanished, beholders lay dead everywhere, and the citadel was in tumult.

  Fzoul watched coldly as some of the priests in the rear of the rushing throng ran into the backs of their fellows before they realized the room was packed, When order and silence held sway, Fzoul said, "A terrible threat to our Brotherhood is attacking the Citadel of the Raven. I need all of you to help; the eye tyrants were in grave trouble when I left"

  If anything, the hush grew even greater. Fzoul could even hear the nearest Brother breathing.

  The high priest looked around with cold eyes and added, "The Lord Manshoon recently established a gate magically linking the citadel with the High Tower. All of you, come with me now. We're going to a place normally reserved for our brothers of Art-the Wizards' Watch Tower, Beware-touch nothing and work no magic without my prior approval, There may be many magical defenses. We go to gain what magic we can seize, not to be caught in magical traps or mistaken castings. I shall go through the gate first. Orders are to be followed without question from this moment on-death shall be dealt on the spot for disobedience."

  He turned toward the nearest door and, without another word, led the way to the gate. Time enough for them to learn about spellfire when they were dying under it

  There was murmuring all around. Shandril seemed to be rising up through warm water toward a lighted place, Not far away, someone was talking. Soothing female tones, mingled with a deeper man's growl-she knew that voice! Mirt!

  Shandril opened her eyes and found herself looking at a truly amazing painted ceiling. Her eyes hadn't wandered very far along its curves and colors before she felt her cheeks burnng. Where was she?

  She turned her head. Lacy undergarments hung on a rail on the back of a half-open door-with a whip dangling beside them, The voices were coming in through the doorway from somewhere below, She lay still in the lush boudoir and listened,

  "I wish I'd seen that." came one wistful female voice, "Ye could hardly have missed it," Mirt protested, "Beholders crashing from the sky, lightning flashing from tower to tower right over ye, here! Ye-"

  The female voice that cut in then sounded rather wisp, "We were busy, Old Wolf, Busy at something that, if done well, rather holds sway over our attention and senses. Or have you never known the attentions of a lady?"

  "No, Belarla," Mirt rumbled. "I could never afford ladies, myself. I always had to settle for women!"

  He was answered by one dry chuckle, and one sniff. Then Belarla's voice said, "Pass the ointment, Oclae-I feel rubbed raw, Aren't those towels dry yet, Old Wolf?" "They're hurrying, they're hurrying," Mirt said, "I'm not used to thy stone irons ... and besides, these towels got so excited, sliding over ye-"

  "Enough! It may surprise you, Mirt, but when you've done this for a year or three, you've heard all the jokes and smart remarks so many times over that any feeble humor they might once have had is gone-quite gone."

  "Don't ye love me any more?" Mirt asked in mock sobs, "That's another remark of the same sort," was the dry reply, "Hurry up with those towels ... we've got to be ready to leave the moment your maid is awake-or if she wakes not, whene'er we dare move her."

  "Where to?" Mirt rumbled,

  "We've got to get her out of the city," the other pleasurequeen said, "There's no place to hide a woman in a house of pleasure,"

  "Don't ye have cellars?"

  "The busiest places of all," Belarla told him crisply, "Too many men like to pretend they're in a dungeon-gods know why! No, Oelaerone's right, Old Wolf. We've got to move her from here. Half the soldiers in the citadel will be in and out of here by next morning, My younger girls start coming in just after even feast-and the first customers hot on their heels."

  "Or something," Oelaerone said quickly before Mirt could, "I've been in better places to defend against the Zhentarim than this old breeze-box, too,"

  "If the Zhentarim discover Shandril's here," Belarla responded, "it's not defending the place we'll have to worry about-it's dying well in the few breaths well have left"

  A chill ran through Shandril. Here were yet more folk she'd pulled into danger, Mirt must have followed her to the citadel, somehow, and rescued her ... she had hazy memories of seeing him running toward her after the last beholder had finally gone down. He'd brought her to a house of pleasure. Typical of Mirt.

  Her lips quirked, but she was too horrified to smile. These two ladies could be dead before night fell if the Zhentarim found her here...and who can hide from the magic archmages wield?

  The voices downstairs went on. As quietly as she could, Shandril swung her legs over the side of the couch, She felt empty and weak inside, and her arms and one hip were stiff, but she was whole and everything moved properly. Someone had sponged her face and hands clean, but she was still dressed. Experimentally, she held up a hand and gathered her will.

  A dull ache instantly smote the back of her head from within-but her hand flamed with spellfire. She was ready for a fight. Stretching and wiggling her fingers, Shandril gathered her courage and slipped out of the room. If she could help it, she'd never bring death to any friends again ... the way Delg had found death, Her lips moved in a soundless prayer: gods will it so.

  With the air of a man who had expected to ruin a task but had triumphed instead, Mirt passed warm, fluffy towels to Oelaerone. She merely raised amused eyebrows, and Mirt harrumphed at her and reached for the bottle of wine they'd brought him. He took a swig of the ruby red Westgate vintage, sighed lustily, and took another. His lips were still at the mouth of the raised bottle when he saw movement out of the corner of one eye-Shandril, passing the doorway like a wind-driven ghost, on her way to the front entrance,
r />   Mirt choked, coughed good Westgate Ruby all down the front of his clothes, and bellowed, "Shan! Stop!" The answering bang of the door told him she was out onto the street, Mitt groaned, pulled on his boots, stamping in haste, and snatched up his saber as he hurried for the door, "She'll be needing me," he said.

  Belarla looked at the drawn blade and reached under the table.

  There was a snapping sound as she twisted something free, followed by a grating noise as she slid a long, needlelike blade into view. It gleamed blue in her hand, "Where are we bound?" she asked calmly.

  "The Wizards' Watch Tower." Mirt rumbled from the doorway,

  Belarla raised her eyebrows and sighed. "Ah, well," she said, as they hurried out, "I was getting tired of Zhentilar men, anyway."

  "A good life, while it lasted," Oelaerone agreed, slamming the purple door behind them. "Lead on, Old Wolf."

  The time for secrecy was past. Fzoul strode across the antechamber, By the flickering light of the gate behind him, he pushed the eyes of the gasping maiden carved on the wall. Her ivory tongue slid out from between the parted lips, and he pressed it down with one finger. There was a dull grating sound, and the rest of the carved wallsatyrs, nymphs, and all-slid inward and sideways, revealing a dark opening. Fzoul snapped his fingers, and glowfire swirled into being around that fraud, Holding his arm high like a torch to light the way, he set off down the secret passage, excited underpriests hurrying behind him.

  The passage was long, cold, and damp. Where it dipped in the center of its run, shallow puddles glistened on the floor. Fzoul ignored them, and the illusion of the lich rising from its coffin to stare at the intruders. He strode on past it-and right through the stone wall behind it. The passage continued into a round room somewhere beneath Wizards' Watch Tower.

  Fzoul set off briskly up the spiral stair there, passing the many closed doors that led off its steps, He climbed round and round until he was quite out of breath-and the stair ended at a door inset with a palely glowing white orb. He touched the door, hissed the word that opened it, and the light in the orb faded away. When it was dark and the door was safe to open, he waved a silent order to the priests behind him. Strong, eager hands slid the heavy stone sideways, and Fzoul stepped into the spell chamber he'd met Manshoon in, once or twice.

  A man, the only occupant of the room, turned from studying glowing symbols on the floor, Orbs of shimmering glass floated above the runes, drifting in slow orbits above the symbols they were linked to, Fzoul came to an abrupt halt and said coldly, "I did not expect to find you here, Sarhthor."

  Sarhthor nodded, not smiling. "I could say the same of you, Lord Priest." He waved at the floor. "I've been working spells, trying to trace the maid Shandril-she must be in the citadel still, cloaked by the scrying defenses we've built up so carefully, Otherwise, I'd surely have found her by now.

  "Have you set the magelings to searching in person?" "That's why you find me alone," Sarhthor replied calmly. "My time for spitting orders is cast"

  FzouI gave him a sharp look but said nothing. The high priest looked down at the winking runes inset into the floor, and up at the orrery turning ponderously overhead, and finally said, "Well, I suggest we begin to work together, tracking Shandril by magic," He turned, "Ansiber-you and all other Brothers of Striking Hand rank and greater, attend here to me, The rest of you-split into sixes and rights and search the citadel, Instant elevation to the Inner Ring awaits any priest who brings Shandril to me. Rouse tire citadel against her!"

  There was an excited murmur and a rushing of robes until only a dozen or so priests remained. Fzoul looked at them, nodded, and said to Sarhthor, "Have you any water?"

  "The quenching-pool, there; the drinking-ewer, there and, somewhat used, in the chamber pot behind that screen."

  'The pool will do," The Master of the Black Altar turned to the priests. "Attend!" he commanded, and they hastened to his side, He pointed at the pool and ordered, "Prepare it for scrying." priests bent to their work, and soon a thin, dripping disc of water as large across as the span of seven men's arms floated at waist height in the spell chamber, rippling

  and glowing faintly.

  As he stepped forward to look into it, Fzoul smiled. "She cannot escape us now," he said in satisfaction, Beside him, Sarhthor shrugged, "I've thought that before, Yet perhaps this time, we can make sure."

  Eighteen

  SEWERS, SWORDS, AND SPELLS

  Gone to the city to seek great adventure, is he? I wager he'll see more of stinking sewers and swords in the dark than ever he does of splendor and spells.

  Overheard in a tavern, and quoted by Tasagar Winterwind Scribe to the Guilds of SelgauntTalk of the Taverns

  Year of the Lost Helm

  By the time he caught up with Shandril, three streets away, Mirt was puffing like an old and irritated walrus, He came around a corner to find her surrounded by wary Zhentilar warriors. A patrol, by the black backside of Bane! Well, he reflected sourly, the best thief that ever lived couldn't wander the streets of the citadel and amid them forever,

  The soldiers must have stepped out of doorways and side alleys; they'd managed to form a ring around Shandril. She was walking unhurriedly on, toward two anxious-looking Zhentilar whose blades were raised. The others were drawing in around her as she walked, their swords ready.

  Finally one of the warriors in her path said uncertainty, "We have you, woman, Kneel and surrender, in the name of the Raven!"

  Shandril raised a hand and burned him like a torch, The other soldiers backed away, blanching, Oily smoke rose up from the huddled form in the street-and then Zhentish shouts echoed on the cobblestones as they broke and fled. As they went, they tugged horns from their belts, and ragged calls went up, echoing off the grim towers around.

  "By my halidom!" Mirt snarled, "Now ye've roused the whole place," He laid a hand on Shandril's shoulder.

  She whirled, Spellfire blazed before his eyes, and he danced away with a startled cry, Shandril looked stricken, "Sorry, Mirt-I didn't mean to..."

  "But you almost did, anyway," he growled. "Come on, lass-we've got to get out of here before all the Zhentarim in Faerun come down on us."

  Shandril shook her head, her face white to the lips, "I'm not running anymore, Go if you wish-I'll stay and fight, as long as there're fools to challenge me,"

  Mirt rolled his eyes. "Ye'll find no shortage of battle, then," He looked over his shoulder at the two Harper women and moved his fingers in a certain sign.

  The pleasure-queens traded glances, Belarla swallowed, looked at Oelaerone with an unspoken prayer in her eyes, and glided forward with silent speed, From behind she slid one slim, skilled hand over Shandril's nose and mouth, and her other arm around Shandril's throat.

  Shandril stiffened. Spellfire flashed, and Belarla hissed in pain as it cooked her arm and fingers. She was sobbing by the time Shandril's eyes dimmed and she went limp. The Harper made sure she was senseless, and then lowered her gently to the street,

  The Old Wolf bent over Belarla. Tears of pain ran down her cheeks as she knelt on the cobbles, Shandril across her lap, Mirt handed two steel vials to Oelaerone, gesturing for her to pour it down Belarla's throat. "Healing potions," he said gruffly, "See that she drinks them both-every drop,"

  Then he scooped up Shandril, grunted as he heaved her onto his shoulders, and said gruffly, "Thanks, Belarla. Myrintara should he able to set things right for you again, if we can reach her,"

  Belarla swallowed, shuddered as the potions took effect, and said faintly. "I-I can manage."Then her gaze rose from an empty vial to fix Mirt with a different pained expression, "By my halidom?"

  Mirt spread his hands, "Eh ... heroes say it in all the best bardic tales," he said sheepishly.

  Belarla made a rude sound. Oelaerone pointed silently, Mirt glanced along her arm and saw perhaps twenty-no, more-Zhentilar warriors approaching warily down the street. He eyed them and asked quietly, "Know you any hiding-holes? They'd come in mighty helpful, about now."


  "Isn't it a bit late to be thinking about that?" Belarla asked him, but Oelaerone pointed again-this time, at the stones under their feet.

  "The sewers," she said simply, then turned, "This way," They hurried after her shapely form, She led through a short alley and then across a broad street, Another alley led them out onto a long, winding lane, Oelaerone turned down it, ducked into a warehouse, and slipped through a dim maze of high-stacked crates and curious men, to yet another street.

  Mirt shifted Shandril over one shoulder, drew his sword, and trotted after her,

  Belarla watched behind.

  As Oelaerone crept into another alley. Belarla said in satisfaction, "We must have lost them by now-nicely done, Oelae."

  They were all startled when a tall, burly Zhentarim mage appeared in their path on the next street In addition to robes rolled up at the sleeve, the wizard wore a single metal gauntlet that winked with spell lights. For a moment, Mirt and the pleasure queens blinked abruptly at him. The street had been empty moments before.

  The mage took one huge step and viciously swung his studded gauntlet backhanded at Oelaerone. She dived headlong to avoid being struck. He ignored her, striding on toward the Old Wolf and his burden.

  Mirt raised the tip of his sword, but the wizard darted to the Old Wolf's burdened side, keeping Shandril between himself and Mirt's blade.

  "It's past time for you to lie down and die, old man," the Zhentarim snarled contemptuously, leaning in to smash Mirt across the face with the gauntlet. The enchanted weapon was hard, and its magic numbed and froze the victim for an instant so that the full force of its blow struck home. Mirt staggered.

  Belarla's blade sang in at the wizard, The sudden sparks of a protective spell spat and shimmered where the blade touched the wizard, then the knife tumbled away, The Zhentarim stiffened, hissed a word, and a web of radiant bolts flared out. Belarla reeled back, clutching her breast in pain, and fell heavily to her knees, her sword clattering on the cobbles.