Elminster's Daughter

"Thank you, merciful gods," she muttered sardonically—then stiffened as two things happened at once: she remembered the silhouette leaping down the stairs, presumably chasing her but somehow not yet upon her . . . and a Harper suddenly veered away from a passing group and thrust a flaming torch at her. "Yours," he said shortly. "Caladnei's orders."

Narnra gaped at him then numbly, because she could think of nothing else to do, took the torch. It spat pitch, as they all did, and burned with a brilliance that warmed her cheek—very real and with enough hard-nailed cloth on it to last for hours. Of course, it made her a beacon in the dark cellars . . . but really, with a Mage Royal casting spells on her, wasn't she that already?

The Silken Shadow sighed heavily, spread her hands in exasperation—for so accomplished a Waterdhavian snatch-thief, she wasn't much of a strategist, thank you, Holy Mask—and set off briskly through the cellars, toward where that archway had been. There was the slimmest of chances the old wizard had returned there or would do so, and she had to at least look or forever gnaw at herself for having failed to do so.

Her way took her through almost a dozen cellars, and she saw almost a score of sprawled corpses and many, many more huddled, sullen prisoners. The Rightful Conspiracy, it seemed, was reduced to its mysterious masters and perhaps a few fugitives who'd managed to slip away.

Yes, this was the right place, here . . . and the passage she'd arrived by would be this one, and . . .

There was a sudden cold flare of magic off to the left, through another archway—and Narnra thrust the torch as behind her as she could manage and sidled nearer to see who was casting what down here—quite away from the bands of grim searchers.

Then she stiffened once more, and turned around very slowly. Why had all the searchers veered away from this area as she walked between them . . . and why was there now utter silence behind her?

Her torch showed her nothing but pillars and dark emptiness.

With a sudden snarl she flung the torch as high and as far back along her trail as she could.

The ceiling was high, and the beacon whupp-whupp-whupped end over end quite vigorously, trailing sparks and flame, to bounce with a flare of fire that sank immediately down to a few fitful flames. They were quite enough, however, to show her the shapely leather-clad legs of a lone figure who'd been following her.

That person lowered one hand to point at the torch—and it rose smoothly into the air, fires quickening once more . . . and came floating upright back to Narnra. At the begi

Narnra swallowed and raised her hand in salute—and caught the torch in her other hand, hoping Caladnei wasn't so spiteful with her Art as to make it explode into a thief-incinerating inferno or some like doom.

The torch stayed a torch, and with a sigh of mingled relief and resignation Narnra turned back to those strange flickerings of magic.

A few paces onward she spun around again to see if Caladnei was following her. She could see nothing but shifting darkness, but a very dry voice murmured in her ear, so seemingly close that she couldn't help but jump: A beacon indeed, Narnra Shalace of Waterdeep. Lead on, and together let us see what unfolds.

Narnra turned her face to the unseen ceiling overhead and flung a silent curse at Mask and Tymora, hefted the torch despairingly in her hands . . . and stepped forward again.

The archway was very close now, perhaps a dozen paces ahead to her left. She held the torch as low and as far to the right as she could, walked in that direction, then crept along the wall toward the edge of the arch. Yes, she was carrying a blazing beacon—but perhaps there was light and strife enough in the cellar to keep attention away from one closer torch among many. Perhaps . . .

Going down to her knees and ducking her head as low to the cold stone floor as she could, the Silken Shadow of Waterdeep peered around the edge of the archway.

The cellar held only two men—and their magic. One was the old wizard, her only way out of all this peril. The other was a younger man who hung gabbling fearfully in midair, gripped in a glowing, swirling cloud of enchantment.

So she was caught between the slowly and carefully advancing Caladnei of Cormyr—herding her as deftly as any drover crowding oxen into a caravan-pen—and the old mage who'd so casually defeated her. No doubt the Mage Royal was walking with spells upon spells raised like shields around her . . . and the power of the old wizard was obvious.

The very air glowed and throbbed with it, a pulsing so mighty it almost hurt the ears.

"Ye could have done this the easy way, ye know," Elminster told the sweat-drenched, trembling man trembling in the air above him. "I'm a gentle tyrant and require only a few breaths of thy precious time—a hindrance in thy scheduled rush to world domination, I grant ye, yet 'twill give thee a chance to practice gloating and shouting clever jests and phrases about thy puissance to come . . . but no, Thauvas, ye had to struggle. And I thought Thayans understood the proper roles of master and slave. Ye disappoint me." His voice sharpened. "So speak. Ye are—?"

"T-Thauvas Zlorn, Red Wizard of Thay."

"Thank ye. So, Thauvas, ye came all the way to damp Marsem-ber—not the nearest port of call from Thayan shores—merely to enjoy a revel with some strangers in a cellar, is that it?"

"Y-y-yes—uh—ah—I mean no!"

"Thy mind wavers and is troubled; bad traits for one who seeks to master wizardry." Elminster shook his head. "The day of thy becoming any sort of zulkir seems distant indeed. Ye came to join or at least scout this Rightful Conspiracy, did ye not? Or is Thay already behind it, and ye were but carrying out an assigned mission?"

Zlorn's face rippled and contorted as he fought against the horribly strong prying that stabbed into his memories and thoughts like a cook jabbing a skewer into a quace-fruit. Unwillingly, his lips moved at the bidding of a second inexorable magic to blurt out the truth. "Y-y-yes."

"Yes which, most eloquent Thauvas? Speak loudly, for all to hear!"

Narnra froze at the old wizard's words—then spun around to look at Caladnei. The Mage Royal's face was as wryly astonished as her own.

"Yes," the Red Wizard gasped hastily, "I was assigned this task . . . many rising Red Wizards involved ... a test for each of us ... Sembians sponsoring this conspiracy . .. begun by exiled malcontents of Cormyr, of course ... we of Thay are keeping hidden, as much as possible, thus far . . ."

As Elminster's fiercely tightening will penetrated thought after memory after precious secret, peeling the Thayan's mind as some folk strip an onion, layer by layer, Thauvas Zlorn began to sob forth phrases more and more freely.

"And your jovial mention of using the Stalwart Adventurers?

This is part of the plot? Under way or a future effort?"

"I—I—I—'twas my own idea . . . Velmaerass very pleased . . . praised me . . ."

"I'm most warmed to hear that," Elminster said in dry tones. "He might even give ye a tharch or two, if ye're still alive by then."

Thauvas was already weeping in fear, bright lines of tears streaming down his cheeks. His teeth now began to chatter, and the Old Mage sighed, waved a hand, and said scornfully, "Sleep then—for now—and keep thy wits, such as they are. All this fainting and gabbling . . . when will these puppies learn that being a mage means facing the possible consequences beforehand, and weighing them, and acting mindful of their weight? Or is thinking before one goes merrily blasting off into red war left only to wise old fools, these days?"