Storm was surprised when the Old Mage took the next chair and sent the first buttered slice drifting over to her, and the second to hang waiting by his beloved's still-murmuring mouth.
The Simbul finished her cloaking spells, smiled her thanks to them both, and attacked the bread with her usual voracious hunger. Storm watched her with a fond smile. Nethreen spent too much of her time rushing about the Realms as a raven or worse, eating nothing or things best forgotten. When she did dine, she had to approach many meals with cautious suspicion, thanks to the deadly designs of Thay.
Another slice rose from Elminster's plate to near the Simbul's mouth just as she finished the first, and Storm knew from the wizard's surprised expression that Sylune was at work, unseen but sharing the kitchen with them all. Dead she might be, but the Silent Sister had gone right on helping and caring for others.
"Well?" Storm prompted Elminster gently, leaning forward with her chin on her cupped hands.
"I look upon it as a Harper training exercise," the Old Mage told her airily, waving a dripping slice of buttered bread. He didn't notice when Sylune's ghostly hands tore it away to take to the Simbul, leaving him with just a crust.
"Explaining away dead bodies?" Storm asked, amused.
"Yes, I suppose-" She broke off with a snort of mirth as Elminster brought his slice down to take a bite, found he had possession of only a crust, and regarded it with deep suspicion.
"The problem with Faerun these days," he said heavily, "is that ye can't trust anything to be as it should be, or once was. Anything at all." He glared at the offending crust darkly. Storm bit down on a knuckle to keep from laughing aloud at his baffled expression.
And then he winked and dropped the pretense and the clowning together, leaning forward to fix her with a disconcertingly level gaze. "I suspect that the Malaugrym spy on us all, often, watching for any chance to seize influence in Faerun with little risk, and rushing in whenever events fall right for them."
The Simbul nodded. "I know they do," she said between bites, butter running down her chin. "Last summer, thinking to thin the ranks of the ambitious apprentice magelings of Thay, I set two slaying snake spells to seek out anyone who spied on a-well, on an attractive-looking trap I set up, that concealed nothing. Both of the spells struck within a day. When I followed them up, I found two headless bodies sprawled half in one shape and half out of another. Malaugrym, without a doubt."
There were grim nods, confirming similar experiences. Elminster pushed his plate aside and continued, "The point is, they're no doubt aware of the increasing chaos of Art in Faerun, of Mystra's waning powers, of Saharel's final death, and of my own weakness. They must see this as a shining opportunity-perhaps the best they'll ever see-to rid themselves forever of their most annoying foe. Me."
The Simbul wiped her chin and said firmly, "It's just as gleaming a chance for me-for us-to destroy Malaugrym. If they're coming to Faerun to destroy you-so long, mind, as you have the wits to stay here and not go running off to their shadow realm after every lure they set you-then they must come within my reach." She strode across the room to seize the back of a chair, and added softly, "And I'll destroy them."
Her slim hands whitened around the chair, trembled slightly, and abruptly the wood shattered, leaving her holding splinters. She stared down at the ruined chair. "Sorry," she muttered, stepping back.
Storm waved the apology and the damage away with the same gesture. "Are you sure it's the wisest course, battling Malaugrym across lands beset with growing chaos and lawlessness, what with magic fading and failing you?" she asked gravely, turning to eye both arch-mages.
"I'm tired of their attacks," the Simbul replied, forestalling Elminster's speech with a swiftly raised hand, "One of them just might succeed, robbing me of my beloved and Shadowdale-nay, all the Realms-of the best protector available. Moreover, Sister, I can't effectively fight Red Wizards if I must flee the fray often and abruptly to rush back across half Faerun to battle Malaugrym. Who'll defend Aglarond when I'm not there? And how can I finish any foe if I rend his best defenses but must turn away, perforce giving him time to flee or replace his ravished Art?"
She looked at the twisted and shattered chair, and said with sudden cold force, "Destroy them, I say. Once and for all."
"If magic fails much more," Storm answered, "destroying them may suddenly be beyond our powers. Surviving might be a goal we find hard to grasp."
Elminster shrugged. "All magecraft-if one views it clearly and admits what truly befalls-is that sort of risky career. Not to dare is not to wield sorcery."
He got up and paced thoughtfully across the smooth flagstones of the kitchen floor, only to turn when he reached a wall, sigh, and add, "And yet-as always, it seems-I'm too busy to spend enough time on them right now to finish them. I know; this very thing has saved them many times-too many times-in the past. Yet in truth they're not worth it."
El spread his hands. "The Time of Troubles has ravaged Faerun and is still doing so. I must repair this and that and the other-or what we know and love of Toril may be swept away and lost, and the war lost because I indulged myself in riding down a few pet foes."
"Look upon slaying Malaugrym as a repair," the Simbul offered calmly, setting forth the viewpoint in debate, her own emotions in check. "Weigh what they may do in Faerun, left untrammeled, with the certainty of what they cannot do if you've stilled them forever."
Elminster frowned. "I'm too busy to get entangled in battle after battle, as they set their snares for me. And I'm far too busy to set snares of my own, using myself as a decoy to lure Malaugrym to their dooms… however richly deserved."
"Then you must be free to set things right in Faerun, as before. Hidden by magic," Storm said to him, and then looked at the Simbul. "While the Malaugrym are drawn into attacking a false Elminster and open themselves to your attacks, Sister."
Elminster and his beloved both frowned back at her. "That will work but once," they said in unison. They exchanged glances, and Nethreen went on alone.
"Once they see they're facing a clone, or a simulacrum, or an illusion, they'll be far more careful in revealing themselves again. We might slay one, or three if they strike together to do the deed, but no more. I can't see how such a scheme will work in any continuing way, without demanding so much of our time that we might as well both be Malaugrym-hunting night and day through, and letting Faerun fend for itself."
"I can see how it might be made to work," came a whisper from the empty air by her elbow. The Queen of Aglarond drew back a pace, raising a hand to unleash slaying magic, then blinked and said, "Sorry, Sister. How?"
The shadowy form of Sylune faded into view, smiling at her. "I can animate any body you create, and cast spells through it. As long as I don't have to smoke that awful pipe, I can be your Elminster."
"What's so awful about my pipe?" Elminster demanded, and was answered by three withering, silent looks. He looked around at them all, grinned weakly, and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Right, then," he agreed, "we have the makings of our false me. We still lack someone to watch over 'me,' someone capable enough to slay the shapeshifters Sylune's spells can't account for."
"We're all still too busy," the Simbul observed wryly, looking to Storm for inspiration.
The Bard of Shadowdale frowned doubtfully. "I've no Harpers close by who are powerful enough to hold their own against such foes, or who can be spared from whatever they're holding together in Faerun right now…"