Sharantyr took the proffered items and laid a hand on the Old Mage's arm. Her eyes were dark and serious.
"Elminster," she asked, "should you be getting into this sort of struggle-with mages you do not know and gates that go you know not where-in your present, ah, vulnerable condition?"
Elminster glared at her for a moment and shrugged. "Ye're young yet, Shar. Ye can't know. 'Tis not pride that makes me poke my nose into all affairs of Art that I come across. 'Tis what I am and what I do. When ye live as long as I have and have seen thy friends, foes, and homes all swept away, one after another, with the endless passing years, all that is left is what ye believe in and strive for. I dare not stay in Shadowdale, to bring danger down on it, but I'll not run away to cower or hide, daring nothing."
He patted her hand where it rested on his arm, then gently pulled free to face her. "Crawl off into a hole and die before I'm dead? Nay, this is what I stand for, and what I'll do."
Sharantyr nodded. "I meant no offense. I'm sorry. I wanted to learn your will, ere we were swept away into battles again."
Elminster grinned suddenly. "And I've told thee, as usual. Thy ears must grow very weary of my voice."
Sharantyr smiled faintly. "Such words would never pass my lips," she said with affected dignity. Then she added slyly, "but I often think them. Love stays my tongue."
" 'Tis a rare love that does that," Elminster said feelingly. He chuckled and said, "Shall we slap this fellow awake and treat ye to more of my tongue?"
Sharantyr grinned. "We shall. I'm getting too old to need sleep at night."
Elminster winced. "I'll be as swift as I can be." He laid a warning finger on his lips to bid her be silent. Unclipping his belt flask, he held it upside down over the guard's head, loosening the stopper so that a thin stream splashed on the man's forehead and ran down into his eyes.
The warrior shuddered, wrinkled his eyes convulsively. He snorted and awoke, knuckling his eyes and moaning.
"Well met," Elminster said briskly. "Thy name?"
"Mulser," the man said, and groaned. "I-it burns inside!"
"Those who defy the lords of Zhentil Keep must pay the price," Elminster said sharply. "This gate ye came here by, where does it lead?"
"Zhentil-? You are of the Brotherhood?"
"Aye," Elminster said solemnly. "My name is both near and dear to Lord Manshoon. I speak with authority that bows only to his word."
"Gods," the man groaned, and drew a trembling breath. "I… hurt, Lord. I… I'll try to serve you, but I fear I can't"-he struggled for a moment and then fell back with a groan-"can't rise," he gasped, sweating.
Elminster laid a hand on his forehead. "Rest and lie still. Answer my questions; that is all ye need do."
When he brought his hand away again, Sharantyr saw that it glistened with the man's sweat. The Old Mage bent close to the man and asked, "This gate, Mulser. Where did ye come from?"
The man gasped for breath a moment and then said, "The-the High Dale. Lord, why do you not know this?"
"It appears," Elminster said in heavy, sinister tones, "that some among us have seen fit to act on their own, as it were. Word of these doings has only just reached my ears. I need you, Mulser, to tell me who of the Brotherhood is in the High Dale, and what exactly befalls there. Speak freely. I value honesty, not toadying words. Tell me, now, who is master in the dale?"
"H-Heladar Longspear, Lord."
"He is of us?"
"A Zhentilar like myself, Lord. He served in the taking of the Citadel, and in Daggerdale. He is hard, but a good blade."
"Which mages back him?"
"Angruin Stormcloak gives him his orders."
"Angruin Myrvult?" Elminster sounded surprised.
"Aye, Lord."
"He's come far. Where does he get his orders?"
"Zhentil Keep itself, Lord." The man's breathing grew labored again, and he coughed weakly. When his voice came again, it was fainter. "I don't know who he reports to… not my right to know."
"How many wizards and apprentices are under Angruin?"
"Ahh-I can't think, Lord. Pardon, if you will… There's Hcarla; he's a bad one. I don't think even his mother ever trusted him. Then there's Sabryn, who was with us here. Is he-?"
"I'll deal with him later," Elminster said coldly. "Go on. These are the mages of power?"
"Those, and a quiet one called Nordryn."
"Any others?"
"Four lesser. Two who rode to battle in Daggerdale: Mrinden and Kalassyn. They're all right, and can hurl fire or lightning if called on."
"The last two?"
"Apprentices, sneaks and noses-in-the-air. Haragh and Ildomyl. They mostly do gate-guard duty on the roads."
"And how many swords does Longspear command, loyal warriors like yourself?"
"I… know not, Lord. Forty, perhaps. Not many more. With perhaps a dozen hireswords, mainly crossbowmen… from Sembia." Mulser groaned again.
"Easy, Mulser," Elminster said, patting his shoulder gently. "Rest easy. Tell me, what does Longspear, as ruler of the High Dale, have you men do?"
"We… we take passage tolls, Lord. One copper a head, two coppers a horse or mule, and two silver falcons per wagon. No priests or wizards are allowed in. All who carry magic must yield it to us until they leave. All who enter must pay. We've already had to escort envoys from Sem-urrghh-Sembia and Cormyr, complaining about the tolls."
"Why don't merchants just go around you, using the road through Daerlun?"
"I've been told," Mulser said, cynical humor dryly audible through the rough pain in his voice, "that the brigands are particularly bad just now. They're… in the Vast Swamp, Lord, and hired by whoever in the Brotherhood has sponsored Stormcloak. The road is… too dangerous for passage without heavy escorts. No lone wagons get through."
Elminster chuckled coldly. "I see how the land rises and falls. How are the dalefolk taking your presence?"
"It's fairly quiet, Lord. They hold no love for us. They call us bladesmen the 'Wolves,' but they're mostly old men. Since Stormcloak made an example of the high constable, they've knuckled under." He coughed again and added weakly, "We had to kill the constables and their archers, of course, to take the place."
"And the wizards?" Elminster's voice was suddenly like a sword blade sheathed in ice.
"I-we found none, Lord, so far as I know. Only a couple of fat old priests. Longspear has them locked up in the High Castle."
"Your barracks is there?"
"N-no… aghhh… Sorry, Lord, my barracks is up north of the castle, near this gate… the other end of it I mean, Lord…"
"But most of the bladesmen are at the castle?"
"No, less than half. Most are in Eastkeep or Westkeep, and there's another four barracks like mine. All the others are at the castle, yes."
"Are there any priests of the Brotherhood with you?"
Mulser was silent a long time, frowning. Then he said slowly, "Now that's curious, Lord. Saragh was saying to me just yesterday that he'd seen none with us in the taking, and we've neither of us seen any since. If there are any Dread Brothers there now, they're keeping well hidden."
"I see. Is there anything else of importance to the Brotherhood, Mulser, that ye think ye should tell me?"
Mulser coughed again, weakly, and shook his head. "I… don't think so, Lord. If there's any secrets in the dale, I know them not."
"Ye've been most helpful, Mulser, a credit to the Brotherhood. It has been many long years since anyone in our ranks has been so honest with me. Ye've done well."
"Thank you, Lord." Mulser's breath came in gasps now. "I… I thought I'd nothing to lose, Lord. I know I'm done for, an'… and I'd rather talk to you, than… go alone."
"Ye're not alone, good Mulser," Elminster said gravely. "Have you any family? A lass? Anyone we should send word to?"