Orthil Voldovan had his suspicions about the carver and his two close-mouthed, armed-to-the-teeth servants, who doubled as Norlaund's drovers-but then, Orthil Voldovan had his suspicions about everybody.
In this case, however, the long-honed Voldovan instincts had been right to rise warily to the alert. Theldarace Norlaund also had another name, though few outside the Zhentarim knew it. He was one of their most capable and trusted-so much as any member of the Brotherhood is trusted, by fellow Zhents-ambitious young magelings and was proud to hear the name "Aumlar Chaunthoun" uttered with grudging respect by no less a personage than Sememmon, the Lord of Darkhold.
Thrice he'd been sent out on difficult missions, tasks he'd been expected to die trying to carry out, Aumlar had no doubt. Thrice he'd come back triumphant. His hand had falsified wills and trade treaties alike. He'd slain certain persons so there were no witnesses and naught was left of them but ashes and impersonated them thereafter for short but crucial times-such as guild meetings. As a result, no less than three Sembian merchant companies and one old-coin Sembian family were now Zhentarim-con-trolled… and knew it not. Moreover, several influential traders in Amn and Tethyr now took orders from the Brotherhood and knew it not. A Waterdhavian guildmaster knew all too well who held the leash about his neck, but he loved that neck too much to dare try to slip that leash and so bowed to the Brotherhood's covert will. All these things were the work of Aumlar Chaunthoun.
His latest orders had been to find and keep watch over one Shandril Shessair, the lass who wielded spellfire, to see exactly where she went, what she did, and whom she consorted with-no more.
Aumlar was no fool. He lusted after spellfire but knew he'd never live to master it, even if he somehow wrested it from the maid out in the wilderlands. This caravan was a-crawl with Zhentarim, Dragon Cult, and other covert agents, all of them waiting to savage each other once any of them moved openly against Shandril.
It was time to start that bloodletting, to thin the ranks of his rivals. Perhaps he could learn some secrets of spellfire he wouldn't have to share-or at the very least, uncover the girl's limitations.
It was time. Tarry any longer, and Waterdeep would be too close-near enough to flee to, and close enough that ambitious Waterdhavians could ride out and launch their own snares and ploys and outright attacks. Now was the time.
If he did it deftly, no one would know who'd launched the spell that started it. She'd rend it, of course, so all it had to be was large, overblown, and spectacular.
The second spell slicing in behind it was the one he wanted to reach her-the one that might give him a whisper-link to Shandril's mind, or failing that to the thoughts of her husband, the weakling Narm. A way to hear and see snatches of what they were thinking, and murmur the occasional suggestion into their dreams. A hook in the mouth of the most prized fish in Faerun, a hook the fish hopefully wouldn't even know was there.
Now! Bane above, the lass had just stopped hurling spell-fire and fallen. If it hadn't been for her man, she'd have gone right off that wagon and been trampled! She must be drained or wounded! Now!
On his knees in the wagon, Aumlar snatched the sack of horsebones. Slipping his arm through a safety-sling to keep from falling, he thrust candles in through the little door of the swaying, dancing lantern that hung from the roof-tree. They seemed to take a very long time to catch alight, and he was hissing a steady stream of heartfelt curses against Mystra and Tymora ere he was able to sit down again, with blazing candles dripping hot wax all over his fingers, and ram them into the waiting iron prongs of his floor-brazier.
Kneeling behind it, he was tall enough to see out over the perch into the chaos of wagons sideswiping each other-and keep his eyes on Shandril. "Stay where you are!" he roared to his two Zhentilar body-blades. They both made quick the double-slaps on their biceps that signaled they'd heard and would obey.
Aumlar glared between them as he chanted the incantation and held ends of horse bone in both candle flames, keeping his eyes and will fiercely fixed on Shandril. The spell ended, the bones fell to dust in his hands, and the smoke became heavy green floor-crawling death-gas.
Outside the slowing, rattling wagon, horses all around suddenly collapsed into clattering, bouncing bones, and dark streams of spell-smoke whirled up from where they'd been.
One of his guards cursed under his breath, knowing just who'd spun this dark magic, and Aumlar grinned savagely as it took shape-perfectly. He'd only dared practice this stolen Mulhorandi spell once before, but it was coalescing faultlessly. A darkening, swiftly growing cloud was expanding above the knot of wagons, the life-force of dozens of horses snarling up into it like so many tiny cyclones feeding the same lord of storms overhead…
As Aumlar bent his will on it and shook out of his sleeves what he'd need for his second spell, the cloud rose up like a dark castle tower, leaning over Shandril Shessair like a watchful hawk in the last moment ere it arrowed down to strike at her.
The wizard thumbed open both small coffers. In one were a few hairs he'd watched Shandril snag on a rough wagon-board, before tearing herself impatiently free. In the other were a few Narm had tugged out of his own head with impatient fingers. From them, Aumlar would with a few muttered words spin a darting thing of stealthy silence to race along in the wake of his Doom of Swords spell. It would do the real harm to the lass that some capricious god or goddess had seen fit to bestow spellfire upon.
"Is it you, Mystra?" he whispered aloud, as he held up a hair in each hand and called the right incantation to mind. "Are you testing us all, once more?"
Blue fire flashed through the dark corners of his mind, just for an instant, and for the first time in months Aumlar Chaunthoun tasted real fear, like cold iron in his mouth. What else could this be but an answer from the goddess?
She was watching him, by the Weave!
"Oh, Mystra," he whispered, voice quavering, and then found himself casting his second spell before he'd quite decided to start unleashing it.
He always thought, afterward, that his casting of the dreamwhisper was Mystra's doing.
The man who was not Haransau Olimer lifted the bowgun, took careful aim, and waited. The maroon-topped wagon was slowing and slewing around as the carter on the perch fought the reins, snarling horrible curses. In a moment its door-flap would be facing him, and A man's head thrust out, looking first to the left. The Dark Blade of Doom fired and saw the merchant who was really a Zhentarim turn back to face his deadly dart. The peering face suddenly grew the dart in its nose. Jerking his head back, the Zhent fell back out of view.
One of the horses reared, and the swearing carter almost fell off his perch. He hadn't even seen his master die.
Marlel smiled softly and went back to being patient.
The dark-robed figure floated up the lightless shaft, paying no heed to the helmed horrors who drifted nearer, coldly flickering-black blades extended menacingly before them. Drauthtar Inskirl had not lasted so long in the Zhentarim by being stupid, or easily cowed. When it pleased the gods-or some cruel superior or overreaching underling in the Brotherhood-to hand him death, his passing would befall, regardless of his desires. Wherefore he sought his pleasures where he saw opportunity, holding back nothing for later, and devoted his efforts to being as indispensable as it's possible for a Zhent wizard to be.
There was no mage more loyal or as well positioned in the evershifting tides of Brotherhood intrigue as the one now passing through the sudden ruby flare of a last defensive spell and stepping onto a platform high up in the dark and seemingly endless shaft.
This was not a stronghold known to many outside the Zhentarim, and the man who waited in its more exalted chambers was a mystery even to most of the Brotherhood. Eirhaun had been a trading partner and crony of Manshoon before the formation of the Zhentarim, and he now commanded the shadowy handful of Zhents who watched their fellow members of the Brotherhood for signs of treachery… or drifting overmuch in loyalty toward Bane and his most ambitious priest, Fzoul.