Lord Crownsilver fumbled to obey, almost dropping the lantern. His lady went cold as she realized that if darkness descended, she had no way of finding the steps back up. She whirled around, found them, and planted herself facing them, hissing, “Get well back from the lantern, Maniol.”
“I’m a busy man,” the voice told them. “So who am I to kill for you?”
It could be coming down any of these pipes-which weren’t for water or pouring grain at all, Lady Crownsilver realized: they were speaking tubes that had once carried orders from the buildings above down into this place, where cargo was stored.
“One Florin Falconhand, of the Swords of Eveningstar chartered company.” Lord Crownsilver, to his lady’s disgust, was unable to keep a quaver of fear out of his voice.
“An adventurer,” the unseen assassin said. “This will be expensive.”
“How much, Crauldreth?” Lady Crownsilver snapped.
“About three times as much as I’d accept for killing either of you, ” came the cold reply.
Lord Maniol Crownsilver went pale and started to shake.
Lady Jalassa caught sight of his movements as he started to peer this way and that, darting swift and futile glances into the gloom all around.
Without turning her head to look at her husband, Lady Jalassa slapped him and snapped crisply, “Stop that.”
Then she lifted her head and asked the unseen Crauldreth, “How much?”
Sarhthor of the Zhentarim hadn’t lived this long by being stupid. He often walked the Stonelands north of Starwater Gorge to choose spots to teleport to in future-and he brought himself to one of those locales now, rather than to the chamber where the most successful of his underlings should be waiting for him.
Whisper was becoming just a bit too ambitious to be trusted. In the slightest.
Standing on the flat rock he’d remembered, surrounded on three sides by a natural rampart of taller boulders, Sarhthor gazed south into Cormyr.
Not far away, under the sharp-edged rock ridges in front of him, lay the ancient and undead-haunted burial catacombs long known as Whisper’s Crypt; the wizard Whisper had taken his Zhentarim name from them, rather than what was now his lair being named after him.
Whisper was an energetic sort. He’d done far more than taming a part of the perilous crypt to be his abode. He’d found some of the ancient automatons, constructs, and colossi in those tombs and other Netherese crypts of the Stonelands, and awakened them to walk, fly, and slay at his bidding.
Yes, Whisper was becoming formidable, with schemes of his own and an increasing ability to enact them.
Sarhthor took the time to cast not one but two snatch-fetch spells to shimmer and spin about himself before teleporting himself into the crypt. Any metal seeking to pierce or fall through those fields would be vaporized, and almost any spell striking it would be twisted into making the fields stronger. Moreover, either snatch-fetch could be commanded to snatch Sarhthor back from the crypt to this rock.
Sarhthor carefully wedged a vial between two of the great rampart rocks, covering it with a small stone shard. If he should need healing in a hurry…
He cast the teleport, knew the usual eerie moment of falling through endless vivid blue mists, and found himself standing in the spot he’d chosen last time: at the head of three shallow steps, in the passage Whisper liked to use to descend into his spellcasting chamber.
Whisper’s back was just ahead of him, and Sarhthor permitted himself a tight smile as he padded down the passage in his underling’s wake. He let Whisper take one stride out into the spellcasting chamber and look toward the cleared area where Sarhthor of the Zhentarim was supposed to appear-an area, he noted, where Whisper seemed to have set up a lingering, almost invisible spell of some sort-then said curtly, “ Report, Whisper.”
Whisper did not-quite-jump three feet into the air. He did, however, flinch violently and stiffen into immobility, perhaps fearing the worst.
Sarhthor didn’t intend to give it to him. Yet. However, there was no need to begin by reassuring Whisper on that matter.
“I’m waiting,” he said. “I see I must inform you that extremely busy senior mages of the Zhentarim dislike being kept waiting.”
Whisper controlled himself rigidly. His turn to face Sarhthor was slow and almost casual.
“Honored superior,” he said, wearing a tight smile, “I have little to tell. Matters in the vicinity of Eveningstar have been very quiet. I continue to work slowly and subtly to increase our influence without the local crop-muckers hearing the name ‘Zhentarim’ overmuch. At the same time, using spells to assume a variety of guises so no war wizard can trace things here or to me, I’m recruiting suitable knaves as agents.”
“ ‘Knaves’? Just men?”
“No. Aging women, past their years of looking good and enjoying the good regard of fellow Evenor, are my best eyes and ears. Capable and vengeful-and already experienced at peering and gossiping, and known in the village for doing so, hence unsuspicious.”
“What are the local war wizards up to during this oh-so-quiet time?”
“Scrying Arabel, seeking petty lawbreakers among the merchants there.”
“Come now! Whilst the war wizards of Arabel do what?”
“The same task. It seems they’ve one of those pushes to cleanse Arabel; they start one every five or six summers.”
Sarhthor shook his head in disbelief. “Cleansing Arabel I can well believe. Leaving Eveningstar unwatched, I cannot. Watch sharp, or you’ll be caught. This ‘attentiveness elsewhere’ of the war wizards known to you means some of Vangey’s other spell-vultures are scrying Eveningstar-rotation of duties to lull you, catch you unguarded, and train fresh eyes in the detection of Eveningstar’s little troubles. Such as you.”
“No one can scry me unnoticed,” Whisper said, “and I’ve found no hint of anyone trying. Vangey’s skulkers are busy elsewhere, I tell you. Most of them in and around Arabel, and others gathering at High Horn-I know not what for, but I’m trying to find out.”
“Huh. Next you’ll be telling me the Purple Dragon has returned, or someone with spellfire’s been found striding around the Dales. Be careful, Whisper, or your blind overconfidence may soon be the death of you.”
“Thank you, honored superior,” Whisper replied tonelessly.
“Dismiss my advice not, mageling-to do so brings you near to death from two directions, and I doubt you’re a good enough dancer to dodge both the war wizards and the Zhentarim. So take my warning to heart. In the meantime, keep in mind two things: that ‘caravans quietly through’ remains our policy, and that there’s much infighting going on at Zhentil Keep right now; we must all be very careful to obey orders diligently and in every detail.”
Whisper nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes, Sarhthor. I hear and will obey. You may count on me.”
As he spoke, a ruby-red radiance flared into being far down the room. Part of a map graven into the top of a massive stone table was glowing balefully.
Sarhthor’s eyes narrowed. “What intrusion does yon spell warn of?”
“Several persons wearing garments marked by my agents have entered a part of the subterranean stronghold known as the Haunted Halls. Specifically, a part where I may well be able to slay them with relative ease, given the traps I’ve crafted there and the layout of the rooms and passages.”
“And your agents marked these ‘several persons’ because?”
“Because I was suspicious of them. These individuals are the Swords of Eveningstar, members of a newly chartered adventuring band, just arrived in Eveningstar. Mere restless younglings out of Espar, who saved the life of the king of Cormyr and claimed a charter as their reward-but bumbling and soon-slain as adventurers may be, they can still draw unwanted attention and unwittingly harm many schemes and proceedings in their blunderings.”