Then Manshoon continued more quietly, "I must be free to train and equip forces to properly defend our city. I must have the authority to whelm and direct them in emergencies. I move that the formal powers of the first lord of Zhentil Keep-my powers-be so increased."
The chamber erupted. Red-faced old nobles pounded fists on their benches and bellowed, "Never!" There were shouts of "Tyranny!" and others of "Well said!" There were also cries of "Let the lord speak!" and "Wisdom at last!"
From out of the tumult, somewhere in the upper benches, came the wink and flash of a dagger spinning end-over-end through the air. Manshoon calmly watched it come. At the last instant, after most councilors had seen the whirling blade, the first lord waved his hand and muttered a word. The blade blossomed into a small shower of sparks and was gone.
Fzoul Chembryl rose, dark robes swirling. His voice was loud and level. "From chaos and strife can come only harm. Whatever is decided here, we must have order in this city, and the rule of law." He surveyed the hall slowly and sternly before he added, "We have heard a proposal of some controversy-and seen the clear urgency behind that proposal. Let us put this matter to a vote. Let this council decide-now!"
One old nobleman protested, "Matters of import shouldn't be decided in haste! This is not well done! This council never speaks or acts hastily!"
High Priest Fzoul answered coolly, "Daggers are never thrown in this council chamber, either." He folded his robes around himself with dignity and sat down.
A young lord rose and shouted over the angry talk that followed. "Let us have a vote. Something must be done, or we all waste our time here!"
There were supportive cries of "A vote! A vote!" Most seemed to come from the benches where wizards sat.
Manshoon nodded. "A vote has been called. Will any other councilor speak for it?"
"I speak for it!" cried an excited young noble in the upper benches, to be answered by a slithering of hisses.
Manshoon's voice silenced them all. "A vote has been twice called, and the duty of this council is clear. Let us vote."
Fzoul stood again. "By rule, any vote for or against a first lord is called by the senior priest present-yet I think it not right for the servants of holy Bane to act so boldly in this purely secular business of Zhentil Keep. If Councilor Urathyl will honor us?"
The young noble who'd seconded the call rose, flushed with pride. "The first lord asks this council to increase his powers and those of the Zhentarim he commands. Who stands in support of this request?"
Here and there around the chamber councilors came silently to their feet. There were not many. Urathyl counted them twice, including himself, and called the count- nineteen-to Fzoul, who confirmed it.
Less happily, the young noble drew breath and said, "Let all against the request stand to be counted."
Benches scraped and echoed all over the chamber. Urathyl counted and called forty-six councilors.
Fzoul bowed. "The count is correct, and has Bane's blessing. The request is den-"
"Wait!" The strong, sour voice of Lord Phandymm cut across the high priest's words. Fzoul bowed, surrendered the floor with a gesture, and sat down.
The senior noble, known as a loud opponent of the Zhentarim, struggled to his feet. He was trembling, and his solemn face slipped into fleeting contortions several times. His hands clutched at his bench for support. "I-I think we are too hasty, and have voted with our hearts, with too little regard for the safety of fair Zhentil Keep. It irks many of us-myself included-"
Phandymm's eyes grew wild, and he gabbled for a moment before his voice cleared. "Irks us, I say, to see one so young making what some see as an arrogant, dangerous grab for the scepter of absolute rule over our city. And yet… if we set aside our anger, what he proposes is only sensible! Have we not seen the perils lurking in the shadows of this very hall? Have w-w-weee-?"
The noble's face twisted and spasmed again. His body Jerked about as if buffeted by unseen hands. He passed trembling fingers over his face, and sat down. "I-I cannot say more," he mumbled.
"Magic," a councilor shouted suddenly. "Someone's using magic on Phandymm!"
"Magic! Through the spell-shields?"
"Aye, Zhentarim magic!"
A Zhentarim wizard rose angrily. "I resent that charge! Will the high priest examine Lord Phandymm? I am confident no spell will be found upon him!"
Fzoul rose and bowed again. "As this meeting unfolds," he said dryly, "it occurs to me that perhaps I should simply remain standing." There were chuckles amid the growing tension. Again Fzoul peered through the glowing gem to seek out any trace of sorcery-and frowned.
"I find no magic," the high priest said firmly. "But there is something…"
He crooked a finger, and a small flask rose from th breast of the hunched lord's robe, sparkling as it drifte smoothly into the air. All could see the potent wine within.
"Ah," Fzoul said, amid a spreading ripple of laughte When the mirth had diminished, he let the flask sink bac and said delicately, "Lord Phandymm seems in some. emotional distress, but his deep feelings for the safety of our city are clear. And from the wisdom of more years than most of us boast, he has called for a revote."
The Zhentarim wizard who'd denied the presence of magic sprang to his feet, voice triumphant. "I move a revote proceed!"
Councilor Urathyl almost fell over his feet as he rose to shout, "I speak in support!"
Fzoul bowed again. "A revote must now occur."
Manshoon sat silently at his front bench, smiling a little. His gaze never left the face of the sweating Lord Phandymm.
From his high vantage, Lord Chess saw a little glow in the first lord's eyes, and was sure: magic. He leapt to his feet. "Enough, Manshoon-and all of you Zhentarim! Let all foul magic be left outside this hall. The councilors of Zhentil Keep must deliberate with clear wits!"
Manshoon turned his burning gaze from Phandymm- who fell back senseless in his seat, head lolling-to Chess.
The nobleman felt a sudden heaviness tearing at his mind. He gasped, then roared in fury as he felt his tongue thicken and words come unbidden into his mouth.
The first lord smiled at him as cruelly as any cat cornering his prey.
Chess glared into that mocking smile as he struggled against his own muscles. The lesser rings of protection on his fingers smoked, flared into tiny blue flames, and burned away. The searing pain cleared his senses. Desperately, Chess drove his arm up-it moved slowly, as if coming from a great distance-to stare at the one ring still on his hand. It flashed.
Sudden golden radiance swirled in the air over the central well of the High Hall. It spun ever-brighter until the stunned councilors saw it become a large black dragon, vast and scaled, its head like a gigantic horned snake. Mighty wings clapped, once.
The wind of that wingbeat smashed many men flat against their benches. The dragon hissed, loud and angry. Acid foamed and bubbled at the edges of its jaws, and the chamber was suddenly full of the eye-watering stink of its breath.
Men screamed. The dragon turned its snakelike head, terrible hunger and mirth in its eyes. With its tail, the wyrm casually smashed a councilor and his bench into a bloody heap of pulp and splinters.
That crash was answered with a ringing like angry bells as the tall windows of the chamber shattered-and true nightmare descended on the council.
The dragon whirled, gleaming scales shifting.
Three orbs, black against the bright sunlight, drifted into the chamber through the broken windows. Eyestalks writhed as each dark sphere looked down with a single unwinking, central eye. A large, many-toothed mouth split one sphere in cruel laughter.