Elminster's Daughter

"No dispute there, lass," Elminster murmured, spreading his hands—a movement that made several Harpers nervously raise handbows. Caladnei saw something of this out of the corner of one eye and whirled to give the tense line of Cormyreans a quelling 'down arms' gesture.

Turning back to the two Chosen once more, she drew herself up and said, "And in that wise, in the interests of the realm, I demand the immediate surrender of Narnra Shalace into my keeping—and the as-swift departure of you both from our land, honored Chosen, until times are more settled in Cormyr."

Gods watching over us, woman, but you have backbone and balls both, Rhauligan thought savagely, eyeing the two mighty Chosen in what might be his last moments of life. Your reckless idiocy leaves me despairing but proud of you.

Why, THANK you, most loyal dealer in turret tops and spires, Caladnei's thought echoed in his mind, as sharp as if she was shouting in his ear. Permit me to BE Mage Royal and not merely carry the title around like a costume to be sneered at, hmm? I've two good reasons for this particular reckless idiocy: first, to make the point that must be made, that I happen to hold authority here and no Chosen should think their divine favor gives them sway to do as they please; and because what I've heard from and about this Narnra convinces me that she's much more than she appears—and at the very least could mind-yield a LOT of useful information about current "dark dealings" in Water-deep. I visit your mind, Rhauligan, not to justify myself, but to give you this order: whatever happens, you are to capture this Narnra and bring her back to the most senior surviving Wizards of War, for questioning.

Lady I am honored to serve, Rhauligan thought back quickly, I hear and obey.

"The woman you demand," Elminster observed gently, "is not ours to surrender. I have freed her from my own detention and will defend that freedom, according to her wishes. Moreover, if ye examine no less than six royal decrees and two binding treaties that I know of, preserved in the royal records of Cormyr, I—though not the ruler of Aglarond, I'll grant—have the freedom of the realm and a court rank, by the way, that outstrips thine own."

Caladnei regarded him expressionlessly, her eyes going darker and more red, then said calmly, "This may be so, yet my desires stand." She looked up at the infamous slayer of hundreds of Thayan wizards, still standing on air above her. "It remains my desire not to offend either of you, but I must ask: Queen of Aglarond, what is your response to these my stated desires?"

"You would defy us, child?" the Simbul asked, her voice incredulous but amused.

Elminster looked up at her, and she turned her head to regard him. They looked at each other in silence, thoughts clearly flashing between them.

"Great persons," Caladnei shapped, clear anger in her voice for the first time, "I demand that you hold no private converse but share for us all what you have to say to each other!"

"Demanding, isn't she?" Elminster remarked, not looking at the Mage Royal. "She extended us no such courtesy when giving Rhauligan his order."

"She's young, yet," the Simbul replied tolerantly. They turned their heads in unison to favor Caladnei with identical sweet smiles and—did as she'd demanded.

YOU DO WELL, TO ASK ME DIRECTLY, AND, YES, SHARING OUR CONVERSE WILL BE FOR THE BEST.

A voice that was gentle and yet thunderous rolled through the cellar, sending Cormyreans staggering back with faces going pale and hands faltering in fear. Not one of them needed to be told who that mind-voice belonged to: blue-white and bright in their minds, tinged with bursting and reforming stars of sheer power, it cried "Mystra" into every mind.

* * * * *

The chime he'd been expecting sang its eerie little song just outside the door, and Bezrar scrambled up from his littered desk. He was sweating—but then, Aumun Tholant Bezrar was always sweating. Part of it was because he was, let's grant it before the gods, fat ... and the other reason was because someone whose daily business as an importer and wholesaler of sundry goods involved far more than the usual cartload of smuggling and of stolen goods well, such a one has a very good reason to sweat.

He fumbled aside the bar, the three chains, the two bolts—and flung the door wide. "B'gads, you're here!"

"Stand aside and let me in," Surth's cold voice snapped out of the darkness, "instead of a

Bezrar blinked, chuckled, and hastily shuffled back to make way for his partner. Surth was right, of course. Surth was always right. "Did y'bring the hoods?"

"No, of course I strolled across all Marsember to pay for a special order and forgot to bring them back with me!" Malakar's voice was as thin, sour, and sarcastic as always. "You'll have to cut your own eyeholes—you do have some shears in this sty, don't you?"

Bezrar chuckled rather than stiffening as he would have done in the unlikely event of any other man in Marsember addressing him in this way. Surth was Surth: Malakar Surth, every cold, sinister, and icily superior inch of him. He was tall and lean where Bezrar was not and sour and sarcastic where Bezrar was jovial and cheerfully evil.

Twas dealing in scents, wines, cordials, and drugs until the coins spilled out of your ears that did it—that and worshipping Shar. Bezrar neither liked nor understood Surth's love of cruelty, but there were times when it came in right handy—stop me vitals!—such as, well, now, for instance. He shook out the hood Surth handed him and held it up, preparatory to yanking it over his head.

"Sit down first," Surth advised him coldly. " Twould be less than amusing to see you stumbling around all this chaos putting the point of your shears through an eye—or perhaps me." Surth made the dry little snort that signified he'd uttered a joke and added, "Come on. The night won't last forever, you know!"

"Odd's fish, no!" Bezrar agreed enthusiastically—if in muffled tones—from within the hood. And promptly stumbled backwards to sit down in his chair with a resounding crash. Surth rolled his eyes in disgust as he watched the fat and hairy fingers of one sundry-wholesaling hand grope around among the litter of papers like a drunken spider, seeking the shears that lay ready gleaming less than a fingerlength away.

His own hood was already prepared and—he jerked it down savagely and settled it with an impatient jerk—on. "Bezrar" he said warningly, in tones that produced the expected result: a frantic flurry of activity that sent the wholesaler's chair creaking.

"Yes, yes, aye, yes!" the frantically snipping wholesaler responded, ending with a triumphant, "There!"

"Luminous," Surth told him in a voice that fairly dripped sarcasm down the walls. "Now, shall we—?"

"Yes, yes, of course, b'gads!" The fat wholesaler heaved himself up like a 'walrus conquering a shore-rock, puffed his way toward the door—and halfway there smote his forehead, turned to pinch the lamp out and snatch up his ready-scabbarded longknife—a truly impressive specimen of the curved Marsemban fish-gutting blade—and turned back to his partner with the sudden question, "What if they're not there?"

Surth set his teeth. "Then we'll try again another night," he explained patiently. 'Wo one swindles ten thousand in gold from Mai—from us and lives to whistle away with it."

"But . . . but what if they are there but are ready for us? With dark spells, say?"

Malakar Surth put his hand to the door and replied, "I have a ... business associate who can step in, if need be."

"Eh? What kind of a 'business associate'?"

The tall, thin shadow silhouetted in the nightgloom of the doorway murmured, "Bezrar, the time for silence is come. Of my associate, let's just say, his spells are darker."