Spellstorm (25 page)

“And why are you here, Old Wolf?” Manshoon asked coldly. “When did you become a clever mage obsessed with Lost Spells?”

“Oh, that’s not one of my schemes yet,” Mirt replied, skewering a whole roast braerwing and transferring it to his plate. “I’m in no hurry to become a wizard. Not when I’m still wondering why wizards are all such arrogant fools, who miss so much joy while they’re shut up with their books and armored in their disdain for the rest of us.”

“Have a care, dullard,” Shaaan reproved Mirt coldly, but Malchor was chuckling.

“Well said, Lord of Waterdeep,” he commented, “if you are still a Lord of Waterdeep.”

“Never renounced the title,” Mirt said, “but quite a count of years slid past while I was caught in a magical trap.” He looked at Shaaan. “So I know a thing or two about traps.”

“And what do the likes of
you
do, when caught in a trap?” she asked in soft challenge.

“Set aside all feuds and grudges to work together and get out of it,” Mirt replied promptly. “You should try it sometime.”

“I agree,” Malchor said firmly. “Too many have fallen already not to think one of us will be next.”

“You propose a temporary truce?” Manshoon asked sharply.

Mirt carefully didn’t look at Elminster—who’d been keeping silent in his comings and goings, ferrying wine into the room and decanting it.

Keeping his gaze on his own reflection in the goblet he was holding, so as not to look at any of the three wizards and give them cause to take offense, Mirt asked, “Why temporary? Strikes me you’d all get a fair sight more done in your lives, if you all cleaved to the same code, or an accord like we in Waterdeep sign with cities and realms we want to trade with; a few clear, simple rules all can trust in.”

“A pretty notion, churl,” Shaaan told him coldly, “but your words contain one fatal flaw: that word ‘trust.’ None of us are foolish enough to indulge in it.”

“Oh?” Mirt looked back at her. “Strikes me the foolishness is in not seeing you’ve more than reached the point where all of you
need
to trust in a code.”

Manshoon smiled thinly. “You really think you can get archmages to behave? You
are
a fool, old man.”

Mirt snorted. “I don’t think
I
can get you to do anything. Nor can anyone armed with but words and a sword, for that matter, even if they gather a great armed host of their friends to stand with them. Accords between wizards only work if the wizards want them to, and do the agreeing themselves. Strikes me it’s all up to you.”

And he got up from his place, wiped grease from his chin with the back of his hand, sighed gustily, belched, and added, “That wasn’t a bad feed. Must go fetch your desserts now.”

And he left, not looking back. He knew the gazes watching him go would be less than friendly, and there was no novelty in being glared at. Lords of Waterdeep soon get used to it, if their fellow citizens know they’re lords.

E
LMINSTER HAD ALREADY
finished setting out a row of full decanters and gleaming-clean goblets in a neat line down the center of the table, and was departing, supporting the stumbling, seemingly half-asleep Lord Halaunt. Desserts-bound, Mirt lurched off after the Sage of Shadowdale, old boots flapping at every step.

The wizards, left alone, all looked at each other.

“There’s truth in what he says,” Malchor observed quietly.

“And so?” Manshoon asked, spitting out those words in a fierce challenge.

“
I’d
like to live to enjoy more wine as good as this,” was the calm Harpell reply. “Is agreement between us on a few simple rules of conduct that impossible?”

Shaaan shrugged. “To put it in uncouth terms, what’s in it for me?”

“Your life?”

M
YRMEEN HAD THE
warmed hand towels, jug of rosewater, and bowls ready when Elminster and Mirt reached the kitchen.

They thanked her with smiles and nods, but took far more time readying themselves for a return to the feast hall than “real” servants would have.

When they did return to the evenfeast table to set out the towels and bowls of rosewater for guests to wash with, Malchor looked up at them and announced, “We three have agreed upon a … truce of sorts.”

El and Mirt kept silent, but put on identical half-smiling expressions of eager interest, and Malchor obligingly explained.

“No poisons, no attempts to enspell each other, no knives used on each other, and no behind-doors deals regarding the Lost Spell—negotiations will be in the open, in front of everyone.”

El lifted his eyebrows in frank disbelief, but Manshoon and Shaaan both nodded coldly.

“Amazing what good wine, comfortable chairs, and a few consecutive moments alone in a calm room can achieve,” El remarked, sitting down at the table and pouring himself a drink. “So tell me now, what are the deeper details of this accord? The ‘and if ye break it, this is what we’ll do’ provisions. Pray elucidate.”

“As for praying,” Shaaan observed glacially, “you might want to bear in mind, Elminster Aumar, that we needed no Chosen of Mystra—nor the blessings of the goddess, for that matter—to reach agreement. We are our own adequate salvation.”

“So ye are!” El agreed heartily. “I can retire now!”

“You might want to see if they manage to make it last at least a day, first,” Mirt pointed out, earning himself thin smiles from Malchor and Manshoon, and an even colder look from Shaaan.

“Ye may have noticed,” Elminster told the three surviving guests, “that Lord Halaunt has been frequently, ah, indisposed. He and I are both having a hard time deciding which of ye will make the best recipient of the Lost Spell. We shall probably wait until the spellstorm subsides before announcing our choice—so try not to break too many things around Oldspires, searching for the spell ye won’t find. Like many an elder, Lord Halaunt gets testy with those who break his keepsakes. Ye’d do better to try to convince us that ye’re the best candidate, if ye can leave off being nastily high-and-mighty for long enough to do so. I know it’ll be a strain.”

Malchor looked amused at that, but the looks Manshoon and Shaaan sent Elminster’s way were positively glacial.

“T
HEY
’
VE ALL GONE
,” Mirt muttered, returning from peering around the feast hall. “We can get on with the washing-up, at least until the next time one of them tries to murder the others.”

Myrmeen looked up from the growing mound of dirty dishes. “You don’t think they’ll try for one of us first?”

Mirt snorted. “And have to play at being their own cooks and servants? No fear!”

A moment later, he added, “Well, except for El, here. The Serpent Queen’s last little crack was a clear reminder that they see all Chosen of Mystra as spies set over them—so if they want to go against what they know she stands for, and merrily continue eliminating powerful wielders of the Art, they’ll probably want Mystra’s eyes and ears gone.”

Myrmeen nodded, and turned to Elminster. “Does that have anything to do with your demand that we wash every last dinner plate? They only dirtied three each, you know, and you’ve stacked up three
dozen
here!”

“Lass, lass, I’ll be doing the washing of them. And ’tis not just my own skin I’m looking to save by washing plates; when they try for me, daggers are far more likely to be their means of choice for my demise. I’m merely remembering King Ulduth.”

“King Ulduth?”

“The ruler of a vestpocket realm in the Border Kingdoms that the Zhentarim had a useful working relationship with, until he grew tired of being swindled out of most of the pittance they’d agreed would be his share. Very soon after he rebuffed them, he and his seven wives, not to mention all their children and most of his royal court, died the same night, after a sumptuous feast. All poisoned in the same way. Nattalath.”

“The mingled oil of three nuts,” Mirt said slowly, “that come from Raurin and Durpar.” He shrugged. “That’s all I know, beyond the fact that the noble House of Kormallis in Waterdeep did a handsome sideline trade in the stuff, with traders from Amn and Calimshan. Until something happened we never learned the details of, to disrupt it. Nattalath oil is a normal part of traditional cuisine east of the Inner Sea, we were given to understand.”

El half smiled. “Ye could say that. If poisoning diners is ‘normal,’ that is. Nattalath has a light salty taste and dries clear, so some Zhent got into Ulduth’s scullery, doused all the feasting plates in it, and set them to dry undisturbed. Nattalath reliquifies when ye put hot food with hotter sauces atop it, and strong-flavored fare serves to hide its saltiness. So everyone who ate off those plates died. In their sleep, later that night; scores of them. So no more Ulduth, and his kingdom went with him, too. The Zhents just happened to have more than a few well-armed agents and magelings visiting the kingdom, who knew all about the deaths before the general populace—so they’d already stepped in and taken over before Ulduth’s barons could even begin to squabble for his crown. They’re still there today. And as diluting nattalath enough takes care of it, ye can be sure they wash their plates good and proper.”

Myrmeen looked at the stacked plates a little grimly, shaking her head. “So you suspect Manshoon?”

“I suspect
all
of our guests, living and dead. But I’m no watch officer, nor tyrant; suspicion is not enough to spur me to accusation or brutal action. So I take precautions, and watch my back warily, and wait.”

“Wait until it’s your turn to get murdered?” Myrmeen snapped. “Not a winning strategy, if I may say so.”

El shrugged. “In that case, it would seem to fit with the sour success of Mystra’s scheme for throwing mighty mages together to try to force accord among them.”

“Unless she wanted the most obstreperous to go down, and saw this as a way of letting it all be deeds mortals did to other mortals, and none of it by her direct hand,” Mirt pointed out. Then he flung his arms wide, and added, “Bah! I’m sick of holding my own hand back from heartily clouting a few magely faces—and backsides. I’m going for a walk!”

“Alone?” Myrmeen asked quickly. “That’s unwise.”

Mirt held up a large, full decanter. “I won’t be alone; I’ll have my friend here.”

“Watch thy back,” El warned.

“Always do,” Mirt replied, and strode out.

Myrmeen shot Elminster a worried look. “Should we go after him?”

“Luse is going with him,” the Sage of Shadowdale replied, heading for the sinks. “She’ll call on us if we’re needed. Just keep thy cleaver handy.”

Myrmeen grinned. “Always do.”