Nanue sobbed at the overpowering smell as she wallowed in glass shards and spilled perfume; she was drenched with half a hundred secret oils and glowing daubs, and the tiles were so slippery she couldn't find footing. At length, weeping with frus¬tration—and at the smell—she started to crawl toward the near¬est rug. It was the one Elminster had recently decorated. Nanue recoiled from it, selected another as her goal, and crawled in that direction, weeping with fresh energy.
Elminster shook his head in disbelief at the scene of devasta¬tion in the room, caught hold of the rope, and was gone into the night. Behind him there was a sharp tearing sound as a gloved hand holding a dagger punched up through the heart of Roaruld Trumpettower, cutting a hole in the massive portrait so that its masked Moonclaws owner could emerge and look wildly around the room for—there!
The stag lay in a serene pool of moonlight near the bed, starred now with many cracks. The thief hastened to scoop it up. "Mine at last!"
"Nay," responded a cold voice from the window. " 'Tis mine!"
A dagger was flung, but missed, coming to quivering rest in a wooden wall-carving with a solid thunk.
The first thief sneered as he scooped up the stag—then, realizing the other Moonclaws man couldn't see his expression through the mask, made a rude gesture with the statue. The sec¬ond thief snarled in rage and threw another dagger. It flashed across the room and passed just in front of Nanue's nose. The crawling bride hastily changed course again, scuttling back across the tiles toward safety behind the lounge.
The thief with the statue strode toward the window. "Keep back!" he warned, waving his dagger.
The second thief scooped up one of the fallen gem-coffers and calmly flung it at the head of the first thief. It hit home and burst open, spilling a glistening rain of gems to the floor. The first thief joined them in the general cascade, the stag flying up from his hand.
End over end it spun through the air—toward the window.
"No!" The second thief lunged desperately after it, slipping and sliding on the bouncing gems. His gloved hands stretched, reaching, reaching—and into the very tips of his straining fin¬gers the proud stag fell.
He clung to it in gloating triumph, skidding across the floor with the momentum of his desperate run. "Hah! I have it! My precious! Oh, my precious stag!"
And then the gems under his boots slid him hard into the low windowsill, and he kicked helplessly, toppled, and with a shriek fell out into the night, wailing, and was gone.
Nanue saw the thief disappear, shivered, and came carefully to her feet, turning again toward the door. She must get out—
Another pair of thieves in black leathers swung in through the windows. "Oh, dungheaps!" Nanue wailed, and started yet another desperate dash for the door.
The thieves looked around at the wreckage and carnage and swore horribly. One bounded forward into the room, swept up the masked woman from the bed, threw her over his shoulder, and made straight for the window again. The other sprinted down the room after Nanue to snatch her for a ransom.
She screamed, and was slipping on rugs, trying not to crash into the door in her haste and fall on the crumpled Peeryst, when something heavy hit the door from the other side. The bolt twisted and jammed, and Nanue slid helplessly into the wall. Snarled curses echoed through the door from the passage be¬yond, and then it shook under another thunderous blow. Nanue scrambled aside, shrieking at the thief who grabbed for her kick¬ing legs.
The door splintered then and flew inward, hurling the thief a good distance away across the furs. He rolled to his feet, and two daggers gleamed as he drew them. The Moonclaws thief saluted the nude woman with them, and advanced menacingly. Nanue screamed again.
Darrigo Trumpettower looked around the ruined bedchamber in bewilderment. At his feet lay his nephew and right beside him, his terrified bride on her knees, shrieking as she crawled toward Darrigo.
Darrigo looked up again, mustache bristling. An intruder in black leathers was coming at him in a run, daggers gleaming in both hands. There wasn't even time to leer down at Nanue— who, he couldn't help noticing, looked like a fine wife indeed. He looked up at the onrushing thief again and drew a deep breath. 'Twas time to uphold the honor of the Trumpettowers!
With a roar, Darrigo Trumpettower charged across the room. The thief swept his daggers up to stab—but the old man took one in the arm without flinching, and smashed home a bone-shattering blow to the thief's jaw. Still roaring, he snatched at the reeling man's throat before he could fall, picked the thief up by the neck the same way he carried turkeys in to be cooked at home, and strode across the room, streaming blood.
Straight to the shattered windows he went, lifted the thief, and hurled him out into the empty darkness. He listened for the thud from the cobbles far below, nodded in satisfaction when it came, and went back for another thief.
Nanue decided it was safe to faint now. As the second thief sailed out into the night, the blushing bride sank gracefully down on Peeryst's chest, and knew no more....
*****
Word was all over the city by midmorn how the old, bluster¬ing warrior Darrigo Trumpettower had fought a dozen thieves in the bridal bedchamber of his nephew while the unhearing lovers had calmly consummated their match, and how he (Darrigo) hurled every one of the Moonclaws in uniform out the high win¬dows, to their deaths in the courtyard of Trumpettower House.
Farl and El raised eyebrows and tankards of strong ale to the news. "It sounds as though one of them rescued Isparla and got out again," Farl said, sipping.
"How many does that leave?" Elminster asked quietly.
Farl shrugged. "Who knows? The gods and the Moonclaws, alone. But they lost Waera, Minter, Annathe, Obaerig, for cer¬tain, and probably Irtil, too. Let's say we're a lot more even after last night—though they did blunder in on a perfectly good grab job and lose us all but the little stuff."
"One of the hairpins broke, too," Elminster reminded him.
"Aye, but we have both pieces; little loss there," Farl said. "Now, if we—"
He broke off, frowned, and bent his head to listen to an ex¬cited whisper at a table nearby, laying a hand on El's arm to bid for silence. Elminster, who'd been holding his peace, continued to do so.
"Aye, magic! Doubtless hidden away by King Uthgrael, years agone!" One man was saying, leaning forward almost into his friend's face to avoid being overheard. "In a secret chamber somewheres in the castle, they say!"
Farl and Elminster leaned forward to listen carefully. A mo¬ment later, the need to do so passed: a minstrel came in, bounded up onto the nearest table, and cried the tale at the top of his young, excited voice.
In truth, it was a tale straight out of the legends minstrels kept shining: a chest of magical ioun stones had been found in the castle—hidden away years before, probably by (or on the orders of) King Uthgrael. The magelords are, and remain, in heated dis¬agreement about who shall have them, and how they'll be used. By decree of King Belaur himself, the stones—glowing and float¬ing about by themselves, giving off faint chimings and musical sounds like harp-chords from time to time—are on display, guarded by the officers and senior armsmen of Athalgard, in a certain audience chamber no wizards are allowed to approach, until a decision is made. As they left the tavern, the excited min¬strel was declaiming in ringing tones that he'd seen the stones himself, and that this was all true!
Farl smiled. "You know we have to go for those stones."
Elminster shook his head. "Ye couldn't turn thy back on them and still be Farl, Master of the Velvet Hands," he said dryly.
Farl chuckled.
"This time," Elminster told him firmly, "ye should wait, let the Moonclaws spring the trap—and go in only if ye can see a safe, clear way to do so."
"Trap?"
"Don't ye smell the hands of calculating wizards in this won¬drous tale? I do."
After a moment, Farl nodded. Their eyes met.
"Why did you say 'ye'?" Farl asked quietly.
"I am done with thieving," Elminster said slowly. "If ye go after these wonderful magical stones, ye must do it alone. I'll be leaving Hastarl after I do one thing more."
Farl stood frozen, eyes very dark. "Why?"
"Robbing and slaying hurts folk I have no quarrel with and brings revenge no closer to the magelords. You saw the stag statue; the grasping hands of thieving only take what's precious and make it battered and broken and worthless. I've learned as much as the street can teach and have had enough." Elminster stared into Farl's stunned eyes and added, "Seasons slip away— and the things I've not done eat at me. I must leave."
"I knew it was coming," Farl admitted, his face going very red. "It's the scruples that assured it. But this 'one thing more'— 'twouldn't be a betrayal, would it?"
Elminster shook his head and spoke slowly and deliberately. "I've never had a friend as close and as true as Farl, son of Hawklyn."
Suddenly their arms were around each other in a tight em¬brace. They stood in the alley and wept, pounding each other on backs and shoulders.
After a time, Farl said, "Ah, El—what'm I to do without you?"
"Take up with Tassabra," Elminster said, and added with a gleam in his eye, "Ye can show her appreciation in a more satis¬fying way than ye can with me."
They stepped back from each other—and then, slowly, both grinned.
"So we part," Farl said, shaking his head. "Half our wealth is yours."
Elminster shrugged. "I'll take only what I need, for the road."
Farl sighed. "So it's loot for me—and killing magelords for you."
"Mayhap," Elminster said softly, "if the gods are kind."
Seven
THE ONE TRUE SPELL
In ancient days, sorcerers sought to learn the One True Spell that would give them power over all the world and understanding of all magic. Some said they'd found it, but such men were usually dismissed as crazed.
I saw one of these "crazed" mages myself. He could ignore spells cast at him as if they did not exist, or work any magic him¬self by silent thought alone. I did not think he was mad—but at peace, driven by urges and vices no longer. He told me the One True Spell was a woman, that her name was Mystra—and that her kisses were wonderful.
Halivon Tharnstar, Avowed of Mystra
Tales Told To A Blind Wizard
Year of the Wyvern
The night was warm and still. Elminster took a deep breath and counted out most of what Farl had insisted he take. He owed a debt. . . and besides, the other matter he meant to see to this night would probably kill him. Then it would be too late to pay any debts.
When he was done, he was looking at a heap of coins—a hun¬dred regals, bright in the moonlight. In the sun, come morn, they'd blaze their true gold color . . . but he'd probably not be around to see them, one way or another.
Elminster shrugged. At least his life was his own again, and he was free to pursue any folly he desired. So, of course, he re¬flected wryly, here he was, bent on one last thiefly act. He slung the coins together in the sack—tight, so they'd not clink—and set off over the rooftops in search of a certain bedchamber.
The shutters were open to let in any breezes that might drift by, to cool a sleeping bridal couple whose furnishings failed by far to match those of the Trumpettowers. Elminster had been delighted to hear of their betrothal, even if it would cost him most of the coins he'd worked for. He stole in over the sill like a purposeful shadow and grinned down at them.
The bridal garter was exquisite, a little thing of lace and silken ribbon. Impishly, Elminster reached down and stroked it.
Take it, as a trophy? But no—he was a thief no more.
Shandathe stirred as she felt the light touch high on her thigh. Yet deep in dreams, she stretched out a hand to the famil¬iar warm and hairy bulk of Hannibur, snoring as deep as any drunken tavern-singer could. As Elminster smoothed her new bridal garter back into place where Hannibur had tied it on her hip, she smiled but didn't awaken.
Elminster noted other gifts, too: a stout cudgel and a new apron lying on the carpet on Hannibur's side of the bed ... and the hilt of a dagger protruding, like a winking eye, from beneath Shandathe's pillow.
He laid his bridal gift carefully between them. It was a tight fit between the smooth flank and the hairy one, and it took all his thiefly skills to avoid a clink and rattle as he slid the coins into a smooth sweep of gleaming gold from end to end of the bed. When he'd crammed in all the regals he dared, there were still over a dozen left. He laid the last of his belated bridal gift gently on Shandathe's belly, and left hastily as the touch of cold metal made her stir in earnest.
*****
Selune was riding high in the deep blue sky over Hastarl as Elminster stood on a rooftop, looking across the empty, silent street at the crumbling front of the disused temple of Mystra.
The place was dark and decaying, and from where he stood Elminster could see the massive lock on the door. The mage-lords, it seemed, didn't want anyone in Hastarl worshiping the Mistress of All Magic but themselves—and they could do that in the safety and privacy of their own tower inside Athalgard. Yet they hadn't dared desecrate Mystra's temple.
Perhaps their power was rooted in it, and striking here could shake their mastery of sorcery and their grip on the realm. Per¬haps he could force Mystra's hand, just as she had forced his when she let his parents be slain. Or perhaps, Elminster admit¬ted to himself as he stared at the temple, he was just weary of doing nothing that mattered, wasting days on rooftops, looking for a chance to steal this bauble or that. Wizards might not dare desecrate Mystra's temple, but Elminster would. Tonight. The world—or at least Athalantar—would be a much better place without any magic at all.
Destroying one temple, though, could hardly hope to do that. But perhaps it might bring down Mystra's curse on the city, so no wizards could work magic within its walls. Or perhaps the temple held some item of magic he could use against the wizards. Or per¬haps it just held his death. Any result would be welcome.
