Spellstorm (19 page)

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.

“Then it’s the cold cellar for her,” Elminster decreed. “The end one, with the good lock.” As Mirt tucked in the errant arm and replaced the dome over the dead Nimbran, he took the other end of the platter and announced, “When we get back, we’ll help with morningfeast.”

“See that you do,” Alusair made the Lord of Oldspires reply. “Sardasper Halaunt is no man’s lackey.”

That brought a snort from all three of the other living occupants of the kitchen, whose day had begun. The bright morning sun was already lighting up the back kitchen where the wines and spirits used in the cooking were stored. They knew that because Mirt awakened with a dry mouth from all his snoring, and sought his own early morningfeast by way of remedy; an entirely liquid repast.

Wherefore he was now a happy man, and hummed a bawdy old tune as he and El set off with their grisly burden.

Myrmeen didn’t pause to watch them go. Soon the early risers among the guests would be stirring and inevitably wanting food; there were dozens of dishes still to ready, and she had a staff serving under her of precisely no one at all.

She built up the fires one more time and stirred the three cauldrons Elminster had tended overnight, swallowing a sigh. For years she’d swung a sword and snapped orders and rushed here and there doing things deemed dangerous or important or both, while others had slaved, overlooked, in kitchens or laundry rooms; it was only fair that the tables turn a time or two, in any life.

And there were two mouths fewer to feed since her arrival. How many more would drop off the roster?

Roast boar was filling the kitchen with sizzling goodness when Mirt and Elminster returned. “Wash that platter,” Myrmeen ordered them briskly. “You are
not
leaving it for me.”

Before anyone could reply, the cauldron at the back suddenly belched bubbles. She leaned forward briskly and stirred its contents, then raised her ladle high enough to sniff. What she smelled made her frown. “Unaccountable fetor,” she muttered.

“Oh?” Mirt reached past her with a ladle of his own, dipped out a small but steaming sample, and slurped at it, heedless of its temperature.

They all watched him move it around in his mouth, as he acquired a thoughtful, considering look. Then he swallowed, with visible discomfort, and pronounced decidedly, “Squamous. Very squamous.”

“Poison, do you think?”

Mirt shook his head. “Probably the shadeberries were too old. They ferment from within. We’ll have to toss it.”

“Over whose head?”

Rather than chuckling, he looked thoughtful. “We’ll have to see.”

E
LMINSTER LED
M
IRT
to the Summer Room, off in the northeastern corner of Oldspires, and examined the doors. Mirt watched him open them and check that the thin threads he’d strung across the door frames just inside the doors were undisturbed. The old moneylender said not a word until they were well away from there, headed for the guest bedchambers.

“Myrmeen’s hair?” he asked quietly then.

El nodded. “And a little wax, to stick it taut.”

“No invasions, I noticed.”

“None yet,” was all El replied before they started the rounds of the bedchamber doors, knocking and calling through the doors that morning feast would be served in the feast hall three gongs hence.

“So, who’s our murderer, d’you think?” Mirt muttered, once they were on their way back to the kitchen. “I can’t figure out who would be a common foe for the fallen—rival for the spell, yes, but enemy enough to slay?”

El shrugged. “I share thy bafflement. Which leads me to suspect we have more than one slayer.”