El nodded. "Lead me to the place. Just so long as ye don't ex¬pect any great tales when we meet on the morrow. I think it's only in minstrels' tales that folk sit around explaining things they already know for eavesdroppers to understand."
Farl nodded. "Just slip in, see where things are, try to find out if there's anything of import befalling—and get you gone again, as quietly as the thing can be done. I want no dead heroes in this partnership; it's too hard to find trustworthy partners."
"Ye prefer live cowards, eh?" Elminster asked as they dropped lightly down from the roof of the tomb and set off through the rubble and tangled plants toward the bough they'd come in by.
Farl stopped him. "Seriously, El—I've never found such fear¬lessness and honesty in anyone. To find it in one who also has endurance and dexterity ... I've only one regret."
"Which is?" Elminster was blushing furiously.
"You're not a pretty lass."
Elminster replied with a rude noise, and they both chuckled and clambered up the tree that would afford them exit.
"I see only one worry ahead," Farl added. "Hastarl grows rich under the wizards, and thieves are coming in. Gangs. As they grow larger, you and I will have to join or start one of our own to survive. Besides, we'll need more hands than these four if we're to tackle these back room investors."
"And thy worry?"
"Betrayal."
That word hung in somber silence between them as they leapt down from the crumbling wall into a garbage-choked alley, and watched the rats run. Elminster said softly, "I've found something precious in thee, too, Farl."
"A friend prettier than yourself?"
"A friend, aye. Loyalty, and trust, too—more precious by far than all the gold we've taken together."
"Pretty speech. I've remembered another regret, too," Farl added gravely. "I couldn't be there in the room to see Shandathe and old Hannibur waking up and seeing each other!"
They convulsed in shared laughter. "I have noted," Elminster added a few helpless breaths later as they went on down the street, "word of that meeting has not spread across Hastarl."
"A pity, indeed," Farl replied. They threw their arms around each other's shoulders and strode down the slippery cobbles, the conquest of all Hastarl bright ahead of them.
Five
TO CHAIN A MAGE
To chain a mage? Why, the promise of power and knowing secrets ('magic,' if you will), greed, and love—the things that chain all men . . . and some of the more foolish women, too.
Athaeal of Evermeet
Musings Of A Witch-Queen In Exile
Year of the Black Flame
The smell wafting up through the high windows was wonder¬ful. In spite of himself, Elminster's stomach growled. He clung to the stone sill, frozen in an awkward head-down pose, and hoped no one would hear.
The feast below was a merry one; glass tinkled and men laughed, short barks of merriment punctuating the general murmur of jests and earnest talk. He was still too distant to hear what was being said. El finished the knot and tugged on it; firm. Aye, then, into the hands of the gods ...
He waited for a burst of laughter and, when it came, slid down the thin cord to the balcony below. For the entire journey he was clearly visible to anyone at the board below who bothered to look up; he was sweating hard as his boots touched the bal¬cony floor, and he could sink thankfully down into a sitting posi¬tion behind the parapet, completely concealed from those at table. No outcry came. After a moment, he relaxed enough to peer carefully around. The balcony was dark and disused; he tried not to stir up dust that might force a sneeze or leave be¬traying marks behind.
Elminster then bent his attention to the chatter below—and within a few words was sitting frozen in fear and rising excite¬ment. His hand went unbidden to his breast, where the Lion Sword was hidden.
"I've heard some sly whispers, Havilyn, that you doubt our powers," a cold and proud voice said, words falling into a sudden, tense silence, "that we are meant to scare the common folk into obedience to the Stag Throne and are not real wizards, daring to set foot outside our realm . . . that our spells may be showy, but would avail little against thieves and the night-work of competitors, leaving our shared investments unprotected."
"I've said no such thing."
"Perhaps not, but your tone now tells me that you believe it. Nay, put your blade away. I intend no harm to you this night. 'Twould be churlish to strike down a man in his own house—and the act of a fool to destroy a good ally and wealthy supporter. All I'd like you to do is watch a little demonstration."
"What sort of magic do you plan to spin, Hawklyn?" Havilyn's tone was wary. "I warn you that some here are not as protected by amulets and shields as I am—and have less reason to love you than I do. It would not be wise to make a man reach for a weapon at this table."
"I have no great violence in mind. I merely wish to reveal the efficacy of my magic by casting for you a spell I've recently per¬fected, which can compel any mortal whose name and likeness I know into my presence."
"Any mortal?"
"Any living mortal. Yet before you name some old foe you'd like to get your hands on, I want to show you the true power of the magic we wield here in Hastarl... the magic you've belittled as mere tricks and flame-balls to cow the common folk."
There was a strange, high ringing and clanking sound. "Be¬hold this chain," came the cold voice of Neldryn Hawklyn, Mage Royal of Athalantar. "Set it down and withdraw; my thanks." There was a glassy shifting sound and then the receding tread of soft and hasty feet.
The clink of moving glass came again, and reflections of flame suddenly danced on the wall above Elminster. He peered at them narrowly and saw that a transparent chain was rising by itself from the floor, rising and coiling upward to hang in the air and turn slowly in a great spiral.
The cold voice of Hawklyn spoke again. "This is the Crystal Chain of Binding, wrought in Netheril long ages ago. Elves, dwarves, and men all searched for it and failed and thought it lost forever. I found it; behold the chain that can imprison any mage—and prevent his use of any magic. Beautiful, is it not?"
There were murmurs of response, and then the mightiest of the magelords continued. "Who is the mightiest mage in all Faerun, Havilyn?"
"You want me to say you, I suppose ... in truth, I know not— you're the expert in matters magical, not me ... this Mad Mage we hear about, I guess...."
"Nay, think greater than that. Recall you nothing of the teachings of Mystra?"
"Her? You plan a chain a goddess?"
"Nay; a mortal, I said, and it's a mortal I have in mind."
"Stop all this grand questioning and tell us," a sour voice said. "There's a time for cleverness and a time for plain talk—and I think we've fast reached the latter."
"Do you doubt my power?"
"Nay, Magelord, I believe you have magic to spare. I told you to stop lording it over us with arrogant word-games and behave more like a great mage and less like a boy trying to impress with his brilliance."
These words ended in a sudden cry of disgust, and a murmur followed. Elminster risked a quick glance above the parapet to peer down, and as quickly ducked back below it again. He'd seen a man sitting at the table gaping in horror at his plate—and on it had been a human head, staring unseeing at him.
"Behold the head of the last man who tried to steal from your warehouse, beheaded by a spell-blade I conjured. There, 'tis gone now. By all means enjoy the rest of your dinner, Nalith; it was only an illusion."
"I think you should tell us plainly, too, Hawklyn," said an¬other, older voice. "Enough games."
"Well enough," the mage royal replied. "Watch, then, and keep silent."
There was a brief muttering, a flash of light, and a high-pitched sound like the jangle of clashing crystal or tiny ankle bells.
"Tell everyone who you are." There was cold triumph in Hawklyn's voice.
"I am called the Magister," came a new voice, calm but qua¬vering with age. There were gasps from around the table, and Elminster could not restrain himself. This was the wizard who wore the mantle of Mystra's power. The greatest mage of all. He had to see. Slowly and cautiously he raised his head to peer over the parapet and froze, chilled by a sudden thought: if the mage-lords controlled the most powerful magic in all Faerun, how could he ever hope to defeat them?
Below stretched the long, gleaming feast table. All the men seated around it were staring at a thin, bearded and robed man who stood upright in an area of radiance a little way down the hall. The hitherto empty spiral of chain was now revolving slowly around him. Little lightnings leapt and played among its coils as it turned, fed by the radiance around the Magister.
"Do you know where you are?" the mage royal asked coldly.
"This room, I know not—some grand house, surely. In Hastarl, in the Realm of the Stag."
"And what is it that binds you?" Magelord Hawklyn leaned forward as he spoke those eager words. Lamplight caught gem-adorned ward-runes on his dark robes, and they flashed as he moved, drawing eyes to him. He looked lean and dangerous as he spread long-fingered hands before him on the table and half rose to challenge the wizard in the grip of the chain.
The Magister looked at the chain with mild curiosity, rather like a man surveying sale-goods after idly entering a shop with an unspectacular facade. He reached out to touch it, ignoring the sudden lightnings that spat and crackled, blinding-white, around his wrinkled hand, tapped it thoughtfully, and said, "It appears to be the Crystal Chain of Binding, forged long ago in Netheril, and thought to be lost. Is it that, or some new chain of thy devising?"
"I shall ask the questions," Neldryn Hawklyn commanded grandly, "and you will give answer—or I'll use this crossbow, and Faerun will have a new Magister." As he spoke, a cocked and loaded crossbow floated into view from behind a curtained door. Startled looks sped between the merchants sitting around the table.
"Oh," the old man said mildly, "is this a challenge, then?"
"Not unless you defy me. Consider it a threat hanging over you. Obey or perish—the same alternatives any king gives his subjects."
"You must live in rather more barbaric lands than I am used to," the Magister said in a dry voice. "Can it be, Neldryn Hawk¬lyn, you have reshaped Athalantar into a tyranny of mages? I have heard things of you and your fellow magelords ... and they were not good things."
"I don't doubt it," Hawklyn sneered. "Now hold your tongue 'til I bid you speak—or a new Magister will speak, in your stead."
"Do you then seek to control when and how the Magister speaks?" The old man's tone seemed almost sad.
"I do." The crossbow drifted nearer, rising menacingly to hang above the table, aimed at the old man's face.
"Mystra forbids that," the Magister said quietly, "and so I have no choice left. I must answer your challenge."
His body suddenly boiled into billowing vapors, faded, and was gone. The chains hung around emptiness for a moment, and then crashed to the floor.
The crossbow jerked as it fired—but the quarrel sped through emptiness, leaping across the room to strike a hanging shield and rebound. It cracked against the stone wall in a cor¬ner, fell, and flew no more.
"Let all that is hidden be revealed!" Mage Royal Hawklyn thundered, standing with his arms raised. Then he recoiled; the old man melted out of the air right in front of his face, sitting calmly on nothing in the air just above the table.
Half a dozen spells lashed out as alarmed wizards saw a clear chance to slay. Amid the leaping magic, terrified merchants upset chairs in their haste to bolt from the table. Food sprayed into the air as ravening flame, bolts of lightning, and mist-shed¬ding beams of coldness cut the air, meeting in hissing chaos where the old man—had been. He was gone, instants before deadly magic struck ... if he'd ever been there at all.
"Those who live by the slaying spell," the Magister said mildly from the balcony—Elminster whirled and gaped in terror as the man in robes suddenly appeared beside him—"must ex¬pect, in the end, to die by it."
He raised his wrinkled hands. From each finger a ruby ray of light stabbed out across the room. Solid things they touched boiled silently away. El gulped as he saw legs standing with no body left above them—and beyond, a sobbing wizard crash to the floor as his frantically running feet were suddenly gone from under him. Amid the screams and crashes the rays slowly faded, leaving only spreading flames behind, where they'd scorched wood or singed tapestries.
The rays were still dying away as men all over the room started to rise into the air—whole or in remains, floating slowly straight up, regardless of their struggles or frantic spellcastings. Glass tinkled and sang as the chain also rose into the air, gliding and coiling like a gigantic snake.
From somewhere nearby, Hawklyn snarled an incantation in a high, frightened voice. The old man ignored him.
The rising men came to a smooth halt at the same height as the balcony, and the chain wove its way among them, gleaming in the light of the fires below.
There was a flash and a roar. Elminster dived for his life as Hawklyn's spell smashed half the balcony into a splintered ruin of paneling and shattered stone. Desperately the young thief clawed his way along a stone floor that was crumbling and col¬lapsing under and behind him.
With a shudder and then a gathering roar, most of the tiles of the broken balcony floor slid down to the stones of the feasting-hall amid a cloud of dust. The rubble piled up in a heap around a lone, leaning pillar that had supported that end of the balcony moments before. Sprawled on the surviving remnant of the bal¬cony, Elminster turned in haste to see the Magister unconcernedly standing on empty air, surrounded by a ring of helpless, floating, frightened men.
"Is that the best you can do, Hawklyn?" The old man shook his head. "You had no business even thinking you could ever grow mighty enough to challenge me, with such feeble powers .. . and dull wits driving them." He sighed. Elminster saw the crystal chain had wrapped itself around the neck of one floating man.
