Elminster's Daughter

There were nods and chuckles from the circle of faces around him. Elminster was aware of the close and thoughtful scrutiny the false Khornadar was now giving him. Quickly he called to mind the faces of two Cormaerils he knew—one of them Jhaunadyl, sitting up warm-eyed in her bed after their lovemaking. . . .

The Red Wizard's probe was as fierce as it was sudden, but rather than let it shatter against his mind-shield, Elminster let it slide in and spun a welter of mental images for Thauvas to see, leaving Jhaunadyl's laughter and outreaching arms to the fore.

The wizard stiffened and reared back his head in disgust. Ah, yes, rampant incest among decadent nobles. Another man might have eagerly looked for more memories of even warmer moments, but many Red Wizards regarded women as little more than cattle and intimacy without domination as hardly worth the time spent on dalliance. Young Zlorn was evidently one such.

It takes great strength of will to maintain such a probe, let alone steer the invaded mind to certain thoughts and memories, and the false Khornadar was gone from Elminster's thoughts as swiftly as he'd come, looking pale and tired as he stepped back in the circle. Someone noticed the trembling of his goblet.

"Art well, mage of Westgate?"

"I—yes. Merely tired," Khornadar replied curtly.

"More wine?"

"Nay, that would be the worst thing. I must sit and listen for a time, letting others do the talking!"

The circle moved confusedly toward a pillar that was apparently encircled by a stone seat, and several of its members took the opportunity to drift away into the throng—where dancing had now broken out in earnest, imperiling several platters of savory tarts being taken around the crowded dance-floor by uncomfortable -looking, weatherbeaten-faced men who were obviously unused to serving food forth.

Elminster ducked under a platter that was well on its way floor-wards—only to see it rescued in his wake by a whooping merchant whose fat quivering chins boasted trembling chinlets of their own—and turned from that impressive sight to find himself face to face with a stu

Regal Lady Mistwind—for this must be the heiress apparent of the house, it could be no other—gave him an even wider smile, showing just the edges of a fine row of pearly teeth, and asked sweetly, "You look like a nobleman who's tasted the world, sir. How does our hospitality here, this night, measure up?"

Well, that was clear invitation enough. Elminster gave her a gallant smile, a bow in the elder court style to signal that he was of a long-established house, too (though of course the Cormaerils would have been scorned in such a claim by many 'true' oldblood nobles of the realm), and the words, "Most beautiful lady, I've but begun to taste what's offered here—yet confess myself impressed thus far by any measure. Perhaps we can speak more of this later?"

Her smile broadened. "Perhaps."

She danced toward him a trifle, almost concealing the hard-eyed bodyguards swaying in time to her movements beyond both of her shoulders, and added huskily, "Your discretion speaks well of you. Lady Amrelle Mistwind gives greeting to—?"

Elminster gave her a smile. "Lord Nameless Cormaeril, at your service."

One dark brow arched. "Namelessness is a matter for scorn if there's no good reason—but you must acquaint me with your reason before I'd presume to pass judgment on it. Later, as you say."

She spun away, her slit-to-the-waist gown giving Elminster a brief glimpse of a gem-studded wyvern tattooed high on her thigh—and a complete lack of undergarments—and left Lord Nameless Cormaeril facing a scowling bodyguard . . . and feeling very warm indeed. Tis these damned magical disguises; they hold the heat so.

* * * * *

Narnra glided to a stop behind another pillar. The guards and servants were growing bored and hungry, and increasingly made little forays out onto the floor to snatch tarts or fancies from platters, ceasing to be so alert for unfolding trouble. Most of them seemed to have been expecting blades drawn between conspirators, anyway, rather than attacks from intruders.

Hmm. There was that tall noble again . . . tall enough to be the old wizard, yes, but of course spell-guises need not have the stature or bulk of the person using them. Yet most men disliked being shorter than they were used to being and avoided such shapes unless they had good reason to do otherwise—and time for reflection upon the matter.

There were at least three men here who were even taller, but two were hulking bodyguards who looked to have ore blood well back in their ancestry, and they kept to the darkened outer rooms, half-dozing ... and the third claimed to be a wizard from Westgate. Would a mage disguising himself be stupid—or vain—enough to make himself into the likeness of ... a wizard? Yet wizards were vain, and this shape was far younger and more handsome than the one he'd worn back in the alley. He'd acted the Old Wise One then, but—was this his true shape? He'd been awfully fast on his feet for a white-bearded dodderer, and the Silken Shadow wasn't as clumsy as all that, if she thought so herself.

The tall noble turned his head and seemed to stare right at her. Narnra froze then looked away, leaned back against her pillar, drew her dagger, and pretended to clean and pare her nails with it. Well, he wasn't coming any closer, at least.

The smell of roasted fowl tarts wafted past, and Narnra suddenly found her mouth full-watering. A moment later, her flat stomach added its own growl of protest. Narnra sighed silently, then put away her knife, stepped around the pillar, and strode out into the chattering throng toward the nearest platter. As the saying went: Swords crossed? Then we might as well shatter realms in battle!

She was a stride away when someone grabbed at the platter, and the servant holding it quickly lofted it out of reach. A tart that had been inches from Narnra's fingertips was suddenly several paces away. With a growl that matched the sound her gut was making, the Silken Shadow stalked after it.

* * * * *

With a grin, Elminster turned away. Well, well, his playmate from the alley had been far bolder than he'd given her credit for—and was now finding, as so many farmers gone to be splendid warriors had discovered before her, that there's nothing like the taste of adventure for making the belly feel yawningly empty. Of course, all too often the meal it soon received was a goodly length of sharpened steel, but there was no need to cast down her spirits warning her of that. She was in it, now, with no going back—and by the looks of her, she had realized that for herself already.

In the dim lamplight, Elminster peered about for the noble lass he'd seen dancing earlier, but she was now—perhaps wisely— nowhere to be seen. There was something about her that made him think of fathering little wizards. Ah, well . . .

Three

THE BRIGHTNESS OF THE LURE

I put out my hand, and the fish swam right into my net—as they always do. It's all in the brightness of the lure you offer.