"No, the Dark Blade of Doom has been seen not ten breaths ago, slipping out of town by the looks of where he was headed and what he was carrying." Bradraskor's tone dripped with scorn for Marlel's self-assumed title. "And she's sitting with Voldovan in the Tankard right now?"
"Making a deal with him," Tornar confirmed. "If they agree, she'll be part of his caravan up to the Big Brawl on the morrow."
"Hmm. 'Tis a long way to Waterdeep," the Master of the Shadows said thoughtfully. "I wonder how many accidents Voldovan will have on this run."
Tornar waited for the huge man behind the desk to say more, but silence stretched until he felt moved to ask, "We're not going to try for…?"
"No," Bradraskor said slowly. "No, I don't think I want to die badly enough for that."
Tornar nodded, as relief flooded through him and quite drove away his fleeting disappointment. He made for the door with his usual soundless tread.
"Eye of mine," the Master of the Shadows said softly, freezing Tornar in mid-step with his gloved hand reaching for the bolt, "not quite so fast. Something occurs to me."
Tornar waited. Something always did.
"We dare not try to seize spellfire because of what would certainly befall us if we tried to hold it," Bradraskor said slowly, "when all the vultures came down with their talons to tear us apart-but by not trying for it, and lurking like a vulture ourselves, we could do some handsome harm to any of our rivals who dare to snatch at it."
Tornar turned, excitement stirring in him. "And so?"
"So I think you'll be on your way to see Bluthlock right now," the Master of the Shadows said with a soft smile. "Tell him that he can spend freely, with my backing, to thin the ranks of anyone Scornubrian he's grown tired of. There are some faces about town that we can all easily miss."
Tornar matched the Master's smile and asked, "What about Andor?"
"You mean the shapeshifter who's gosing as Andor?"
Tornar the Eye stiffened. "What?"
"Andor was found in Old Ornrim's nets in the Chionthar a little over two months back, with a goodly part of his face eaten away by the fishes."
"I never heard about this," Tornar murmured, leaning forward in frowning interest. "Ornrim went missing about then, as I recall."
The Master of the Shadows nodded. "The one who's now posing as Andor saw to that."
"And how-?"
"Do I know this? Someone saw Ornrim's neck being broken."
Tornar did not voice his question, and Bradraskor grew a slow smile. "No, not one of my other Eyes. A visiting noble, as it happens."
Tornar's lip curled. '"You've found a noble who can be trusted?"
"Do you recall the lady who put a sword through Ulbegh last summer?"
"Tessaril Winter of Eveningstar?"
Belgon Bradraskor smiled. "Faerun is such a small place, sometimes. It's comforting, how all the spiderwebs draw together in tangles and most folk don't even notice. Haste now, Tornar-I can feel someone about to tug on this most interesting of webs."
The informant nodded, went out, and carefully drew the door closed before he shivered. The last thing he'd seen had been those two pale eyes, watching him. Yes, exactly like a pale, quivering monster, padding softly through the darkness…
Fallen By The Wayside
Ah, yes, spellspun gates. Portals, some call them. "Death-doors" is the term I prefer. The reason? Well, each step through one is a step closer to the time when your death is standing waiting for you on the other side-with a big cold grin on its face and a sword in its hand you'll have no time nor chance to avoid. 'Tis like any adventuring life, but shorter.
"As I see it," Hlael said gloomily, "we're doomed if we face spellfire-and just as doomed if we fail and our superiors hear of it. Unless we can change our shapes and hide so well as to never be traced or found-or win spellfire for ourselves, and with it remove every last one of our superiors from the unfolding tapestry of life without anyone else in all Faerun seeing or guessing that we have spellfire… we're dead men. Somehow neither of those events seems very likely."
"Enough," Korthauvar Hammantle snapped. "Move carefully, as we agreed to do, avoid mistakes, and see what befalls. Slowly and carefully, not like the ever-growing army of fool-headed magelings all falling over each other to impress Manshoon! Some of Fzoul's upperpriests have been working on tasks he set them for years and have thus far accomplished nothing that the rest of us can see-and yet live still and hold their places in councils!"
"Places we've never been offered," Hlael returned, slamming shut a spellbook in a momentary show of anger.
"Hlael! Bane take you! You've enough gloom in you for any dozen old men in a tavern! Have we not woven a splendid plan-brilliant enough to please old Iceglare himself? Have I not just recast no less than four spells of power and had all of them w.ork successfully? Just one more, and we're on our way!"
"Hear my joy and rejoicing," Hlael Toraunt of the Zhentarim told the ceiling, quiet sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
Korthauvar gave him a glare as hot as any red dragon's baleful regard, and lowered his head once more to the old and crumbling grimoire in front of him. Its theft had cost six men their lives-blood well spent, as far as he was concerned, and what use had those dolts of Candlekeep for such lore anyway? 'Twas not as if they ever used it for anything useful… Now, if this incantation was twisted thus, and that awakening borrowed from the farscry spell crafted by Ilibrin of Old Impiltur, so-he scribbled a few notes and circled the word haethin; 'twould be necessary to work that into the unfolding of the enchantment, after the charge to… yes.
He read over his notes, rewrote them into something formal, nodded in satisfaction, and began to gather candles, several powders, two small stones he'd carried in a pouch whilst teleporting, and another, slightly larger piece of stone that had once formed the threshold of a gate in Teshwave. This should work. It might fail against certain gates, depending on the portal enchantments, but should do no harm in any event.
"Hlael," he said gently, "I believe we're ready. Read you this."
The shorter wizard shook himself all over, perhaps to hide a shiver. He stepped forward, read Korthauvar's newly drafted incantation in frowning silence, then nodded. "After the third candle?"
"Yes. Shall we?"
Hlael nodded again, and the casting began. Quiet, careful, and slow-paced the spell-weaving went, as the two wizards spread powders in a careful design around three closed circles. Placing the fragment of former threshold in the central one, they took up positions on either side of it, in the outermost circles, held up their written incantations, and began to chant- at first in unison, then in turns.
"Haethin drur athaumalae, ringra don'' With a flourish Korthauvar finished, drawing his hand gracefully closed. In slow magnificence, his newly crafted magic spread out from his circle, along the pattern of powders.
Hlael breathed a deep sigh of relief and satisfaction as the spellglow rose around them. "Well done," he said, and meant it. Blood of Bane, five new magics crafted in a day! All of them cobbled together from existing spells, to be sure, but nonetheless newly honed and focused, like tools no one had ever made before, forged from chisels by a blacksmith to do specific tasks.
Korthauvar beamed like a lion that has made a kill he's hunted for a whole season, his smile bright in the gloomy chamber, and spread his hands.
"Now let us see what we shall see," he said delightedly. "This may all be so much wasted time, but I can't think Lady Lord Winter would dare to send the wench and her bumbling mage of a man right into our clutches in the Stonelands, or through Tunland, alone-or even risk them on a caravan to Amn or Iriaebor, where they know our watch is vigilant."