In all the years they’d worked together, the motherly second-in-command of the war wizards had never abruptly broken off a spell-link before.
Horaundoon grinned. The hargaunt’s chimes sounded strange when it was plastered over his face.
“That makes eleven she’s wormed for me, now,” he told it with solid satisfaction. “And the beauty of it is that the war wizards can’t find me. All the mindworms are linked to the first one: Narantha’s worm. Not to me directly. If they move against her, I can just withdraw and be ‘not there.’ In fact, never there for them to find.”
The hargaunt’s chiming was almost a trill this time. Even it was getting excited.
Horaundoon put his fingertips together and smiled at nothing over them. If this scheme worked, it would be his most brilliant achievement, and should win him the favor of Manshoon and much awe among all Zhentarim-and make his planned “disappearance” urgently necessary.
The hargaunt chimed again, insistently, and Horaundoon hastened to answer. “Through the worms I can make those young nobles speak and act as I desire. If one fights me, I can prevail only for a short time-yet it will be more than enough to mislead war wizards, Purple Dragons, and others as to his loyalty and plans.”
Horaundoon strolled across the room toward his decanters for a spot of Berduskan Dark.
“This,” he added, before the hargaunt could tell him again that it was tiring of half-answers, “should result in these nobles being discredited and killed while resisting arrest-for unless they’ve minds stronger than most archmages, they’ll remember nothing coherent of my compelling them, and so will be bewildered at the treatment they get from the authorities. If they submit, they may well get executed for treason-and surrender, die fighting, or flee into exile, whichever they choose. Their families may well end up dispossessed and exiled.”
He unstoppered the decanter he was seeking, spun around on his heels triumphantly in search of the right tallglass, and continued, “The Obarskyrs acting against these nobles will of course spread fear and hatred of the royals among the rest of the nobles, about the Obarskyrs mayhap turning on them next. Which will make”-he poured, sipped, sighed appreciatively, and filled the tallglass-“said nobles much more receptive than they’ve traditionally been to sly, secret offers of coin, alliances, trade assistance and ties, and suchlike, from handy, smiling, local Zhent agents.”
Horaundoon set down his glass and murmured, “Speaking of which…”
He settled himself in the nearest chair and thought of Florin. When the mindworm in the forester’s head stirred, he reached through it very gently, not wanting to have the young man feel his presence, get alarmed, and fight him.
Ah. Our Florin was upset and angry with someone-a friend-and striding to a confrontation with her. Good. He’d not notice a light delving to capture the way he spoke, the phrases he liked to use…
The knowledge settled into Horaundoon’s busy mind like a cold, heavy weight, and he winced, wiping sudden sweat from his face. Forcing a mind to reveal something or say something was swift, simple work; this was more like trudging, on a slippery hillside, under a heavy load that kept shifting… Steadying himself under the cold heaviness, he thought of Narantha Crownsilver-and in a trice felt her stiffen at his touch in her mind. He made himself feel like Florin, so he’d sound like Florin when mind-talking.
Narantha? Lady? Hear you me? A kindly war wizard has cast a spell to let me mindspeak you.
Florin! Lord of my love, how fare you? I miss you!
And I you. I fare very well, but cannot speak long, and of course have no privacy for our speaking. So I’d just like to say this: I’ve just spoken with someone special to all Cormyreans, and learned about your superb service to the king. Nantha, I’m so proud of you. All the realm should be thanking you, and yet can never know what you’re doing, but I must thank you. And pray you keep safe. And thank you again!
Oh, Florin.
Narantha’s flood of affection was like a warm rush, so strong that it left Horaundoon’s mouth dry. He blinked; Bane and Mystra, he was squirming in his chair!
His influence over Narantha via the mindworm in her head was well-nigh perfect! He felt delight to match Narantha’s own, now surging through him…
Gods, this was hard work. Pleasant, thanks to this wench’s emotions, but-best ended now.
Narantha, the wizard wilts. I must go. I love you.
And I you, Florin. And I, you!
Horaundoon broke the link and found himself drenched with sweat, the hargaunt rippling and quivering across his face. He smiled and reached for his glass.
The success of his deception and the efficacy of his control were both worth toasting.
“And,” he told the hargaunt triumphantly, “while we’re gloating anyhail, it will soon be time to send the oh-so-handsome Florin to the noble bedchambers of Arabel, and start subverting some noble ladies, too!”
Rhalseer’s was a much cheaper place to live than any inn, but it was a lowcoin Arabellan rooming house.
Which meant it was rather bare, none too clean, as cold inside as the wind was outside, and had been down-at-heels to start with. Shutters covered windows that had never known glass, and boards creaked underfoot.
They were creaking now, as Florin marched across the sagging upper floor and angrily flung open the door of the chamber shared by the female Swords.
Pennae, barefoot and wearing breeches and dethma, was sitting cross-legged by the lone open window, where the light was strongest, sewing up a long tear in the sleeve of her leather jerkin. She looked up at Florin, saw his expression, and sighed.
“Close the door, Florin. If you’ve come to shout at me, we’d probably prefer the rest of Rhalseer’s lodgers not to hear every last word.”
Florin reached out and closed the door. Then he strode across the room, sat down beside Pennae, and said to the wall, “I’ll try not to shout. D’you know how foolish you’re being?”
Pennae gave him a lifted eyebrow. “By indulging in a little merry thieving?”
“Yes,” Florin snarled, “just that. By indulging in a little merry thieving.”
“Lad,” Pennae asked, “how heavy is your purse?”
“That’s not the point-”
“Ah, but it is. We’ll starve and freeze come winter, if we haven’t amassed enough coin for a fire in the grates of both these rooms, and Rhalseer’s rent, and food to fill our bellies. The king gave us a charter, but no coins to live on-and thus far, our grand adventures haven’t won us much more than a handful.”
“Arabel’s expensive,” Florin said, “but we shouldn’t be here at all.”
Pennae laid aside her sewing and put a hand on the forester’s arm. “We’re not going back to Eveningstar,” she told him. “Not now. Not with Tessaril watching us with the help of every war wizard she wants to call on-and a number of men with crossbows all too eager to shoot holes through us all; men we don’t even know the names and faces of, to strike at before they take us down. Oh, no. In Arabel we’re safely away from making trouble in the heart of Cormyr, and besmirching the reputation of a certain young Lady Crownsilver-don’t blush, Florin; I know you were forbearing nobility itself toward her, but you must admit she was smitten with you-so the king can safely forget about us.”
“But I-”
“You’re smitten with guilt that we’re not dying in the Haunted Halls, to please the king. You’re also-forgive me, lad, but we can all see it-as restless as a boar come rutting season, stuck here in this city without trees, thornvines, and small furry things everywhere underfoot, scurrying to and fro. If you want to return to Eveningstar, tell me this: how? Are we to walk, with no coin for food, drink, or shelter, and our horses back in Eveningstar? We haven’t enough to pay a carter to share an open cart with his turnips, by all the helpful gods!”
Florin stared into her eyes, anger still alive in his own-then shook his head, looked away, and said, “You have the right of it, as always. ’Tis just… this is not what I dreamed of, when wanting to be an adventurer!”