“Aye,” another agreed, amid general murmurs of approval. “So what if the graybeards yap and snap at each other in Council all the day long? Let them! I see naught in Faerun that threatens Zhentil Keep, nor stands in the way of our coins piling up. The Council moves in time whenever those dolts in Mulmaster dare yet another challenge or a Thayan wizard sinks so far in decadence that he loses his wits and thinks to come and rule us—and the rest of the time, it keeps our fathers and the dotards busy, their noses out of our own affairs!”
“And just how many affairs has it been, Thaerun? ” another noble asked slyly.
“Aye, this tenday?” added another, amid general mirth.
Chess frowned. “Have you no care at all for snakes in our midst? Agents of Thay, of the Cult of the Dragon—even of Sembia and Calimshan—are uncovered every month! The points of their daggers are always close—closer than you credit!”
“Ah,” Thaerun said, leaning forward to tap the table in front of him in triumphant emphasis. “That’s the point, Chess. They are uncovered, by the watchful wizards Manshoon commands and by Fzoul’s tame priests. That’s why we tolerate those haughty longrobes in our city in the first place! They watch behind our backs, so we can get on with the business of getting rich!”
“And wenching,” someone murmured. “Drinking,” another added, and someone asked, “What is this chamberpot-spill, anyway, Chess?”
“The finest Mulhorand vintage,” Chess said dryly. “Not that I expected you to recognize it, Naerh.”
Naerh spat insolently onto the table. “That’s for your pretensions! My family is as old as yours!”
“And as debauched,” Thaerun murmured, and there was a general roar of laughter.
Chess smiled thinly. “You would do well to enjoy your ease while you have it,” he said softly. “It is a precious luxury, soon lost if just one of our many foes should decide to go to war.”
Thaerun leaned forward again, his eyes cold. “I do… and I will. Every luxury has its price, yes, but as this one costs only the blood of a few fool money-scuttlers and hireswords from time to time, it’s one I’ll pay willingly. Save your veiled threats. The Blackryn name is a proud one—one I am always ready to defend.” There was a scattering of twinkling points of light at his wrist, and that hand suddenly held an ornate wand that pulsed and glowed.
Another noble sighed in disgust. “Oh, put it away, Thaerun! You’re always trying to prove how battle-bold you are, and managing to show only your lack of subtlety. We’ve all got one or more of those! You think you’re the only one in Zhentil Keep with wits enough to carry magic, when we have to hang our blades up at every door when we party?”
Another noble scratched the scrawny beginnings of a beard and added, “Besides, if you ever use it, Blackryn, ‘tis the blood of one or more of us’ll be spilt, then the blood-feuds begin again, and that is too high a price for the liking of the Council. They’ll put you in beast-shape, to spend your days as a patrol-hound somewhere north of Glister … until you find death, that is.” He leaned forward, uncrossing glossy-booted legs, and said, “Give us more wine here, Chess, and tell me more of that maid with the green hair I saw you with, last eve! I’ve not laid eyes on her before—where’ve you been hiding her?”
Chess smiled, as a massive silver tray bristling with bottles and sparkle-cut decanters floated up from the polished wood in front of him and began a slow, drifting journey down the table. “Yes, her hair was green last night. She’s one of Manshoon’s wizards, Eldarr. The Shadowsil, she’s called—and don’t even think about it. She could slay us all with one wave of her hand.”
“And that, Thaerun,” Naerh said dryly, “would also be too high a price for your liking, eh?”
* * * * *
“I—I’ll live, lord,” Taersel muttered, hauling himself weakly up out of the chair.
The beholder hung watchfully at the other end of the chamber, its eyestalks curling and reaching like a nest of menacing snakes.
“As I promised,” it rumbled.
Manshoon nodded, curtly. “Indeed. What else would you know?”
The eye tyrant drifted nearer. “You’ve said your plans will strengthen Zhentil Keep, making it a better tool for our uses, and yet its most able warriors and senior nobles are stricken by the tens and the dozens—this is by your hand, is it not?”
Manshoon shrugged. “I don’t deny it. My poisons are slow, however; my enemies fall ill and fail slowly. Their family businesses and stratagems do not collapse with them, but are taken up and carried on by younger, more able hands.”
“Hands more loyal to yourself.”
“If my plans come to pass, more loyal to you, as well.”
The beholder seemed to dwindle, and grew a misshapen tail. As the two men watched, the tail thickened, writhed, and became once more a human body. “When the Council next meets, you shall have our support,” it said simply, and turned away.
* * * * *
When the well-oiled door that led down to the secret ways out had closed behind the last guest’s back, Lord Chess sat alone at his table, a full glass forgotten before him. Idly he turned a heavy gold ring around and around on his finger as he thought about Manshoon. Nothing short of an angry god—or two dozen Red Wizards of Thay, or perhaps Elminster—would stop that one now. Manshoon was as powerful in magecraft as he was a cold and cruel strategist, and he’d be the real ruler of Zhentil Keep before the snows came again, for sure.
A year ago, that would have been unthinkable, with all the wily, battle-hardened old nobles of the Keep between the untrustworthy, arrogant mage and mastery of the city. Most of them were fiercely opposed to every member, plan, or work of the swift-rising Zhentarim. No surprise there: all merchants know there’s no safety when one must deal with magic.
Then old Iorltar had named Manshoon his successor as First Lord—under magical compulsion or at least under the threat of magical destruction, many thought—and Manshoon and Fzoul had grown very friendly. Or revealed a long-standing alliance, more like. Then the oldest, proudest nobles—all of whom commanded strong magic of their own, or had no love for the upstart First Lord—had begun to fall ill. Again, no shred of proof could be found. But the whispers in the taverns of the Keep knew the truth. Now the talk was of open violence, soon, and of some sort of secret weapon Manshoon had ready to wield, beyond the tricks of the ever-growing band of “gutter wizards”—ruthless and lawless freewands from all over the lands about the Sea of Fallen Stars—who followed him.
Lord Chess reached for his glass. The ring on his finger gleamed in the lamplight, and he regarded it thoughtfully. It had cost him dear—his best band of adventurers slain to a man by killers whose fees had been expensive indeed—but it had been worth it. He could call a dragon forth from it, in need. He wore it constantly, these days. Manshoon wasn’t the only one in the Keep with secret weapons.
“This young wizard has lived far too long already,” the High Imperceptor of Bane said softly. The burning light in his pale eyes was reflected in the glossy blackness of the polished marble tabletop. The listening priests nodded at his words, waiting for more in silence.
“If he sees the end of this summer, he may well build Zhentil Keep into a fortress against us. Manshoon must be destroyed.” The High Imperceptor swept a glance of fire all around the table, then turned away. “See to it,” he added.
“Aye, Dread Lord.”
“Report it done by this time on the morrow,” the One True Servant of Bane told the wall beside him, “and I shall be pleased.” He looked up at the huge Black Hand of Bane that floated above them all, silent and motionless, and murmured, “Fail in this before six nights are out, and Almighty Bane shall be displeased.”
“Hear the will of Bane,” the gathered priests chanted in unison. When they looked up, the High Imperceptor was gone from the holy sanctum.