Crown of Fire

If anything, the hush grew even greater. Fzoul could even hear the nearest Brother breathing.

The high priest looked around with cold eyes and added, "The Lord Manshoon recently established a gate magically linking the citadel with the High Tower. All of you, come with me now. We're going to a place normally reserved for our brothers of Art-the Wizards' Watch Tower, Beware-touch nothing and work no magic without my prior approval, There may be many magical defenses. We go to gain what magic we can seize, not to be caught in magical traps or mistaken castings. I shall go through the gate first. Orders are to be followed without question from this moment on-death shall be dealt on the spot for disobedience."

He turned toward the nearest door and, without another word, led the way to the gate. Time enough for them to learn about spellfire when they were dying under it.

There was murmuring all around. Shandril seemed to be rising up through warm water toward a lighted place, Not far away, someone was talking. Soothing female tones, mingled with a deeper man's growl-she knew that voice! Mirt!

Shandril opened her eyes and found herself looking at a truly amazing painted ceiling. Her eyes hadn't wandered very far along its curves and colors before she felt her cheeks bur

She turned her head. Lacy undergarments hung on a rail on the back of a half-open door-with a whip dangling beside them, The voices were coming in through the doorway from somewhere below, She lay still in the lush boudoir and listened.

"I wish I'd seen that." came one wistful female voice, "Ye could hardly have missed it," Mirt protested, "Beholders crashing from the sky, lightning flashing from tower to tower right over ye, here! Ye-"

The female voice that cut in then sounded rather wisp, "We were busy, Old Wolf, Busy at something that, if done well, rather holds sway over our attention and senses. Or have you never known the attentions of a lady?"

"No, Belarla," Mirt rumbled. "I could never afford ladies, myself. I always had to settle for women!"

He was answered by one dry chuckle, and one sniff. Then Belarla's voice said, "Pass the ointment, Oclae-I feel rubbed raw, Aren't those towels dry yet, Old Wolf?" "They're hurrying, they're hurrying," Mirt said, "I'm not used to thy stone irons… and besides, these towels got so excited, sliding over ye-"

"Enough! It may surprise you, Mirt, but when you've done this for a year or three, you've heard all the jokes and smart remarks so many times over that any feeble humor they might once have had is gone-quite gone."

"Don't ye love me any more?" Mirt asked in mock sobs, "That's another remark of the same sort," was the dry reply, "Hurry up with those towels… we've got to be ready to leave the moment your maid is awake-or if she wakes not, whene'er we dare move her."

"Where to?" Mirt rumbled.

"We've got to get her out of the city," the other pleasure queen said, "There's no place to hide a woman in a house of pleasure."

"Don't ye have cellars?"

"The busiest places of all," Belarla told him crisply, "Too many men like to pretend they're in a dungeon-gods know why! No, Oelaerone's right, Old Wolf. We've got to move her from here. Half the soldiers in the citadel will be in and out of here by next morning, My younger girls start coming in just after even feast-and the first customers hot on their heels."

"Or something," Oelaerone said quickly before Mirt could, "I've been in better places to defend against the Zhentarim than this old breeze-box, too."

"If the Zhentarim discover Shandril's here," Belarla responded, "it's not defending the place we'll have to worry about-it's dying well in the few breaths well have left."

A chill ran through Shandril. Here were yet more folk she'd pulled into danger, Mirt must have followed her to the citadel, somehow, and rescued her… she had hazy memories of seeing him ru

Her lips quirked, but she was too horrified to smile. These two ladies could be dead before night fell if the Zhentarim found her here…and who can hide from the magic archmages wield?

The voices downstairs went on. As quietly as she could, Shandril swung her legs over the side of the couch, She felt empty and weak inside, and her arms and one hip were stiff, but she was whole and everything moved properly. Someone had sponged her face and hands clean, but she was still dressed. Experimentally, she held up a hand and gathered her will.

A dull ache instantly smote the back of her head from within-but her hand flamed with spellfire. She was ready for a fight. Stretching and wiggling her fingers, Shandril gathered her courage and slipped out of the room. If she could help it, she'd never bring death to any friends again… the way Delg had found death, Her lips moved in a soundless prayer: gods will it so.

With the air of a man who had expected to ruin a task but had triumphed instead, Mirt passed warm, fluffy towels to Oelaerone. She merely raised amused eyebrows, and Mirt harrumphed at her and reached for the bottle of wine they'd brought him. He took a swig of the ruby red Westgate vintage, sighed lustily, and took another. His lips were still at the mouth of the raised bottle when he saw movement out of the corner of one eye-Shandril, passing the doorway like a wind-driven ghost, on her way to the front entrance.

Mirt choked, coughed good Westgate Ruby all down the front of his clothes, and bellowed, "Shan! Stop!" The answering bang of the door told him she was out onto the street, Mitt groaned, pulled on his boots, stamping in haste, and snatched up his saber as he hurried for the door, "She'll be needing me," he said.

Belarla looked at the drawn blade and reached under the table.

There was a snapping sound as she twisted something free, followed by a grating noise as she slid a long, needlelike blade into view. It gleamed blue in her hand, "Where are we bound?" she asked calmly.

"The Wizards' Watch Tower." Mirt rumbled from the doorway.

Belarla raised her eyebrows and sighed. "Ah, well," she said, as they hurried out, "I was getting tired of Zhentilar men, anyway."

"A good life, while it lasted," Oelaerone agreed, slamming the purple door behind them. "Lead on, Old Wolf."

The time for secrecy was past. Fzoul strode across the antechamber, By the flickering light of the gate behind him, he pushed the eyes of the gasping maiden carved on the wall. Her ivory tongue slid out from between the parted lips, and he pressed it down with one finger. There was a dull grating sound, and the rest of the carved wallsatyrs, nymphs, and all-slid inward and sideways, revealing a dark opening. Fzoul snapped his fingers, and glowfire swirled into being around that fraud, Holding his arm high like a torch to light the way, he set off down the secret passage, excited underpriests hurrying behind him.

The passage was long, cold, and damp. Where it dipped in the center of its run, shallow puddles glistened on the floor. Fzoul ignored them, and the illusion of the lich rising from its coffin to stare at the intruders. He strode on past it-and right through the stone wall behind it. The passage continued into a round room somewhere beneath Wizards' Watch Tower.

Fzoul set off briskly up the spiral stair there, passing the many closed doors that led off its steps, He climbed round and round until he was quite out of breath-and the stair ended at a door inset with a palely glowing white orb. He touched the door, hissed the word that opened it, and the light in the orb faded away. When it was dark and the door was safe to open, he waved a silent order to the priests behind him. Strong, eager hands slid the heavy stone sideways, and Fzoul stepped into the spell chamber he'd met Manshoon in, once or twice.