Spellstorm (19 page)

Elminster sighed, set down a ladle, strode a few restless paces away until he fetched
up against the counter where Myrmeen lay deep in slumber, then turned and came back
to where he’d been.

“The more gods meddle, the worse things get,” he blurted out. “I’m sure this comes
not as news to ye. Nor does it to most of them, but they can’t resist trying to bend
mortals to their will directly, especially when they see rival deities doing so. Mystra …”

He picked up the ladle again and waved it thoughtfully in the air, choosing his words
carefully. “Mystra desires to stay out of daily doings in Faerûn as much as possible,
to let mortals find their own ways in life.
Yet She hopes the stresses of this scramble for the Lost Spell might scare the mages
engaged in it into seeing a little more sense … or at least a trifle more daily self-discipline
in their behavior. If we could just get them to agree on some things, or even work
together, that would be a great step forward for life in Faerûn.”

“Hah! You think they’ll listen to
anything
the Old Weirdbeard suggests? Except as something to be fought against, renounced,
or foiled as thoroughly and spectacularly as they can?”

“Ye see my problem as clearly as I do,” El replied wryly.

“And so?”

“And so we’ll see what I achieve through the good offices of ye and Myrmeen and Mirt.”

“And if we fail?”

El shrugged. “Then we fail. At least we’ll have tried, and will know where we stand
with these particular preening idiots.”

“Well, that’s something,” Alusair observed wryly. “At least you see that mighty mages—like
you—are preening idiots.”

“Oh, lass, I knew that
centuries
ago. I’ve spent more centuries trying to become the
best
preening idiot amongst them—and damn me if they haven’t given me savage competition
for the title!”

“Once more, you leave me unsurprised,” Alusair murmured

T
HE
N
IGHT
C
LOAK
regarded the thin stiletto that had just thrust viciously out through the keyhole,
seeking her life. She was utterly calm. After all, she’d been a Harper for a long
time—and before that, had apprenticed to, among others, both Elminster of Shadowdale
and Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun.

“A rather pointed greeting, my lord,” she commented. “Have you problems at home with
irritatingly persistent peddlers, perhaps?”

Her words fell into a little silence, but before it stretched so far that she was
moved to shrug and walk away, a reply came from the other side of the door. “And who
might you be, Lady?”

“Alastra Hathwinter,” Alastra replied, and added dryly, “We’ve met.”

“Indeed. Are you alone?”

“I am.”

“And do you often knock on the doors of strange men late at night?”

“No. Usually they knock on mine.”

“And the reason for this exception?”

“I seek to negotiate with you, Maraunth Torr. Your might in the Art is impressive,
your accomplishments formidable, and for some time I have been wondering how best
to contact you. We Who Harp could benefit from certain cooperations with you—as could
you. As you’re obviously awake, this might be a good time to discuss matters. Or at
least arrange a better time.”

The stiletto withdrew, she heard the door bolt rattle, its lock click open—and the
door swung ajar.

Maraunth Torr stood a little way beyond it, a long dark rod in his hand, one end of
it aimed at her. He regarded her expressionlessly.

She smiled politely, but that made a sneer rise to his face.

“Tell me, Lady Hathwinter, do your ‘negotiations’ of this sort often succeed? And
why the coyness, for one of your known profession; whatever is wrong with the plain
old word ‘seduction’?”

“Nothing,” Alastra replied flatly, “save that it has nothing to do with my visit.
Your flatter yourself overmuch, Lord Torr. My ‘known profession,’ as you term it,
has furnished me with an army of splendid bedmates, and a far larger one of less than
splendid partners. I’ve ridden the ride more than enough times for one life, and am
not here at your door for pleasures of the flesh. If you’re not interested in business
propositions, I’ll depart.”

Maraunth Torr’s face became expressionless again.

“Perhaps I was overly hasty in my judgments,” he said politely. “Please come in.”

“Thank you,” Alastra said gravely, and stepped across the threshold.

“Please,” he said, setting down his rod on a side table, and waving at a desk and
chair. “Will you sit? Oh, and pray close the door.”

She half turned to do so, then stopped turning and kept her gaze on him, reaching
back and closing the door by feel. That expressionless face of his told her far more
than he thought it did. He was going to try to kill her, here and now. This close
to her, and trusting arrogantly in his own power to prevail where others had seen
their spells go awry. Oh, yes, he meant murder. So was Calathlarra innocent; had he
been the one in this high old house dealing death all along?

She watched him steadily as she closed the door.

Whereupon he shrugged and launched the spell meant to strike her down anyway, their
eyes steady upon each other all the while.

The air boiled up into bright winking sparks that enshrouded Maraunth Torr’s head
and shoulders; a trick of the twisted local Weave that was tugging magic awry, no
doubt.

Yet his spell, over the bare two paces between them, lashed out at her with its usual
fury, breaking over her in a wave of eldritch fire.

It harmed her not at all. Her counterspell was instantaneous and drew on the enchanted
Harper pin she wore at her throat for its power, so it might well work, even here
with the Art unreliable.

It did. There was a flash so brief it seemed hardly more than a flicker, and Maraunth
Torr’s ravening fire was simply—gone.

His astonishment was so deep that his eyes went wide, and he almost gasped. He recovered
quickly, though, turning that gape of his mouth into a swiftly hissed incantation.

The Night Cloak winced, recognizing the spell. A strong one that would go a long way
toward slaying her if it struck home. She was either going to suffer great pain a
moment from now, or—

There was a screech, as of rending metal, and a blinding burst of emerald flame that
left her blinking at raging purple afterimages. Something swirled past her in the
air like a scimitar trailing flames, and—

Maraunth Torr screamed.

Tears blinded Alastra in a sudden torrent, and she blinked furiously, sidestepping
out of sheer habit. When she could see again, her would-be slayer was still staggering
around his bedchamber, writhing in pain and clawing at the air with trembling, spasming
fingers that wriggled like eels.

He was wild-eyed and soot-scorched, and the hair on the right side of his head was
all burned off—to say nothing of his clothing, now gone all down that side of his
body.

My, my; what a magnificent man. Blistered all down his flank and leg, mind; when magic
went wild here in Oldspires, it really went wild.

He stared at her like a trapped animal, dazed and fearful, bewildered.

Well, well. Humbled by his own spell. Mystra
did
have a sense of justice, after all.

Alastra strode forward and took hold of one of his trembling hands.

“You,” she announced crisply, “need to be taught some lessons. Come with me, little
boy.”

Then she looked him up and down, and smirked. “Perhaps a seduction is in order, after
all. Just to seal whatever deal we make. Or I dictate.” She turned and made for the
door, towing him along. Reeling a little, he accompanied her willingly.

“T
HE DOOR
,” S
HAAAN
informed whoever had just knocked, “is open. Enter.”

In unhurried near silence the door opened, and she found herself gazing at Manshoon,
tall and sleekly handsome in his dark robes. He wore his usual gentle half smile.

“You will be wondering why I am here,” he stated politely, stepping into her room.

“You find me irresistible and are here to enter lifelong slavery at my feet,” she
replied, matching his tone of voice precisely.

“I am here to offer an alliance. Here in Oldspires and beyond.”

She did not trouble to hide her sneer. “I can see how that would benefit you, but
what possible advantage would I gain, in return for the inconvenience of having an
overconfident, clumsily manipulative man underfoot, trammeling my freedom?”

“I am not so much of a liability as you seem to believe,” her visitor replied calmly.
“And you are not inexperienced; you should need no soft warnings from me of what a
vampire can do to the living, even when magic cannot be trusted.”

“Threats this swiftly, Manshoon? Have you not even bothered to assemble the barest
beginnings of arguments for why we should work together?” Shaaan shook her head, her
contempt suddenly boiling up inside her until it almost choked her. “I am part serpent,”
she told him bluntly, “and fear your undeath not at all. Your physical strength even
less. And as for your grasp of the Art—hah!”

That gentle, sardonic smile was still riding his face, but she could tell Manshoon
was taken aback. Ah, he must have recovered the use of some of his vampiric powers,
and his smugness along with them. Well …

She strode right at him, reaching out to grasp his nearest hand. Even if he was immune
to all the poisons her fingernails could dispense,
she could break his fingers with ease, and that left most men weeping like babies,
helpless in their pain.

A moment before she would have touched him, he lapsed into a cloud of mist. She smiled
and breathed a cloud of venom right into his midst, watching it roil through him—emerald
in places and a sickly yellowish-green hue like diseased leaves in others. He started
howling in pain, even before it forced him back into solidity, and tried to flee.
Hunched over and stumbling, he fled out the door racked with pain—a burning agony
that should subside by morning. If he was still alive.

Listening to his wails fading away down the passage, Shaaan permitted herself an unguardedly
nasty smile.

Wearing it, wide and triumphant, she strolled to her door to close it again.

She was still a step away when someone raced into her doorway, to come to a hasty,
lurching halt there and stand peering at her warily.

It was Calathlarra of the Twisted Rune. Well, of course, the locks on these doors
might stop a clumsy child, but …

The Runemaster was hunched over as if expecting rejection and pain, and blurted out
hurriedly, “May I come in? I would speak with you.” Then she added hastily, “Fear
no treachery from me. I know you are more powerful than I.”

Shaaan smiled. “You are wiser than the rest of the current occupants of this house.
Come in; I have uses for you.”

The Runemaster scuttled past, and Shaaan smiled even more broadly, and shut the door.

M
IRT LIFTED THE
lid. “She’s still dead.” One of Yusendre’s arms fell limply off the platter and dangled
eerily; Myrmeen gave it a sour look.