Manshoon has altered the Darkways, making passage through them fatal. The dead include many of the Art, including accomplished mages like Ardroth Thauntan, Hoal of the Stormwands, and Handreth Imbreth of Waterdeep, the latest of Sarbuckho’s hirelings. Mend this crime, El.
“Lady, I will,” Elminster promised, rising and reaching a hand toward the bedchamber door. His robes, clout, boots, and belt of many pouches raced to him.
Wizards must not be slain out of hand, be they the cause of this or not-yet destroy not the gates.
Elminster nodded, boots in hand-as blue light flared around him, and he was gone.
And with him went mist, lightning, Mystra, and all.
Leaving the folk of Innarlith blinking at each other across a suddenly empty passage.
Rising unsteadily, tears still raining from her chin as if from a downspout, the Spaerenza gave her High Constable a rather rueful grin.
“I’d say it’s a good thing you didn’t actually arrest our guest, Lhoreld. It makes it far easier for all of us to forget any of this happened, don’t you think?”
An Unlooked-For Messenger
The alleyway was deserted, fortunately, but the cold and the distinctive reek-an unhealthy mix of smelting, woodsmoke from a thousand-some chimneys, and rotting fish-told him he’d arrived in Zhentil Keep.
“Thank ye, Mystra,” Elminster murmured, hastily pulling on his boots. The goddess was, after all, why he had a deserted alley to dress in.
Right behind Fantharl Halamaun’s mansion, too.
He went round to the front as he cast a hasty spell to make his garments smarter and darker, to go with the younger and more prosperous face he was giving himself. After all, a messenger from Halamaun’s Sembian backers would either come through the Darkway, or seek entrance at the front doors.
The waylord’s guards-two mountainous hulks in full armor overlooked by four crossbowmen who looked more than ready to fire-were expecting trouble.
“Emrayn Melkanthar, from Sembia, to see Fantharl Halamaun. Immediately,” Elminster made crisp reply to the guards’ challenge.
“The lord is not at home,” was the flat reply.
“I’ll await him in his forehall,” he responded, just as flatly.
“We are to admit no one-”
“You will make an exception, or your master will be far less than pleased.”
One of the crossbowmen vanished from the balcony above the doors, and returned with a handsome, richly dressed man with a styled and curved mustache.
“Valandro!” the Sembian greeted him, before the wizard could say a word. The Tethyrian frowned.
“I know you not, saer. Who are you, and how is it you know me?”
“I am Emrayn Melkanthar, and I am come from certain men in Sembia Halamaun does business with. Men who like to know with whom they deal-wherefore I was shown your likeness, and told you were Valandro the Mysterious these days, though I know you of old as-”
“Enough,” the Tethyrian said sharply. Drawing two wands from his belt, he leaned over the balcony rail and said curtly to the guards below, “Let him in. I’ll be responsible.”
He hastened down to meet the Sembian, wands aimed and ready, but was seen to go quiet and fall into step beside Melkanthar, leading the Sembian away from the forehall and along passages toward the rear of the house.
When they reached the chamber that held Halamaun’s Darkway, Valandro the Mysterious dismissed the guards there, closed the doors to keep them out and himself and the Sembian in, then stood like an impassive statue as Melkanthar strode slowly around the glowing portal, nodded, and cast a swift, tentative spell. Only to frown and cast another.
“There,” he said aloud. “Manshoon’s enchantment now no longer transforms the blood of users, but instead works on their minds, promoting one of the most feeble spells they already know how to cast-and making it the only spell they can cast. Vulnerability, but not instant death. Aye, that should do it.”
He strode past the motionless and unseeing Valandro to the door, but was still reaching for its handle when it was flung wide, and four guards with leveled glaives thrust forward into the room, an angry Fantharl Halamaun right behind them.
“Die, foul Zhentarim!” the waylord snapped. “Not content to-”
“Hold!”
Magic lashed forth from the intruder with force enough to send Halamaun’s guards staggering back, dropped polearms clanging and clattering.
“No Zhentarim am I,” said the stranger. “I am of the Vigilant Ravens.”
Fantharl Halamaun blinked. The Ravens were a powerful Sembian cabal that opposed Manshoon’s rise to power, but he’d thought they’d not do anything beyond offering him bad prices and a chill welcome in Sembian markets.
“Your wizard Ardroth Thauntan died using your Darkway,” the Sembian continued, “because Manshoon cast a spell on it that turns the blood of anyone passing through it to acid. I’ve countered his spell; it is safe to use again.”
Halamaun glowered at the intruder, then nodded grudgingly. “I-I just heard from some fellow traders of their Darkways becoming deathtraps. You know Manshoon is behind this?”
The Sembian nodded. “By way of payment, Halamaun”-the builder stiffened, but the Sembian waved a contemptuous hand and continued-“suppose you tell me the name of one of Manshoon’s worst, ah, enforcers. The warriors he sends to do his open slayings. I feel in need of some… sport.”
Fantharl Halamaun drew his lips back from his teeth in a mirthless smile. “Ornthen Kelgoran. He won’t be hard to find-he fears no man of the city who isn’t his master Manshoon or an upperpriest of Bane.”
“That will change,” was the calm reply.
Neither knife nor spell tested Elminster’s wards as he stalked out of Halamaun’s house. He turned two street corners before he relinquished his hold over the mind of Valandro the Mysterious, leaving behind whirling confusion as to what Emrayn Melkanthar of Sembia had looked like.
Not that the Tethyrian would have much time to ponder. Unless Halamaun was far less scared than El had judged him to be, he would keep Valandro and his overdone mustache very busy spreading word to his fellow waylords of what Manshoon had done.
At the Drowning Hippocampus
In Zhentil Keep, richly dressed strangers attracted unhealthy attention in far safer drinking and wenching clubs than the noisome, dimly lit Drowning Hippocampus, so El altered his guise again, becoming a filthy, stooped old man in fittingly foul robes.
Besides, the Sembian’s coins had served their purpose, buying the news of Ornthen Kelgoran’s present whereabouts from several eager tongues. It seemed Kelgoran wasn’t well loved, or was well feared, or both. Probably both.
Now, the man would either be dominating the bar with goblet in hand and tongue a-wag, or abed somewhere with a lowcoin lass. Or two.
El shuffled through the doors, into near darkness and an all-too-familiar din and reek of spilled drink, unwashed bodies, spew, and burnt cabbage. Why all of these places had to smell of scorched cabbage was beyond him, but…
To the owner of the first hostile glare directed his way, El mumbled, “Urgent message for Kelgoran-where be he?”
“Rutting in the back,” was the reply. “Best wait for him to-”
El stumbled past, and down the hall his informant had nodded toward. At its very end he discovered a guard sitting against a door with a loaded crossbow across his knees.
That bow got aimed at his crotch with menacing speed. “Go away,” its owner suggested tersely.
“Message for Kelgoran from Lord Manshoon,” El growled back. “Still want me to go away?”
“How do I know you speak truth?”
“You’ll know,” El replied, thrusting his head forward, jaw first, “when Manshoon rewards you-either for helping me reach Kelgoran, or for being less than helpful.”
He let two dancing flames kindle in his eyes, just for a moment, and the guard recoiled with comical speed, swallowing and trying to claw his way upright and seeking to slide sideways along the wall and out of the way, all at once. “R-right the other side of the door, S-saer Zhent!” he offered breathlessly.