Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [5]
"Why, here, as it happens," said a new voice, full and rich and only gently menacing. Heads turned all down the table.
At the far end of the table from Sarhthor sat a regal, dusky man robed in black and dark blue. A moment before, there had been no man and no chair in that spot. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep smiled at all the turning heads. Before him on the table sat a serving platter covered with a silver dome, steam rising gently from around its edges.
"I've only now escaped from the pressing business of governing this great city" – the voice dipped only slightly in silken irony "- to meet with you all. Well met. I trust the patience taught by Sarhthor and wise others among us has kept you all occupied, and I beg you to excuse my not offering you any of my evenfeast I am" – his voice dipped in soft menace – "hungry this night."
Then the Lord Manshoon flashed his teeth at them all in a smile that shone very white, and he uncovered the platter before him. Wisps of richly scented steam rose from the deep red ring of firewine sauce. It lay in a channel in the platter, surrounding the lord's evening meal: a dark, slithering heap of live, glistening black eels from the Moonsea, lying on a bed of spiced rice. A slim, jeweltopped silver skewer appeared in the lord's hand from the empty air before him- Smoothly, he stabbed the first coiling, twisting eel, and dipped it delicately in the hot sauce.
"Despite my apparent ease," Manshoon said, waving his laden skewer as he looked down the table,
"our Brotherhood – nay, the world entire – remains in peril. You have all heard of the recent commotion among our fellows of the Black Altar, and of the matter of spellfire."
He paused for a moment. The silence of the listening Zhentarim wizards had changed subtly, and Manshoon knew he had their keen interest now. He smelled the sharp edge of their fear as they faced him and tried to look unmoved and peerless and dangerous. He almost chuckled.
"That matter remains unresolved. A young lady by the name of Shandril walks Faerun somewhere south and west of us, guarded only by a dwarf and her mate – a knave by the name of Narm, who is weaker in Art than the least among you has been in some years. This Shandril alone commands spellfire, imperfectly as yet. She seeks training from Harpers and can expect some Harper aid along her way."
The quality of the listeners' silence changed again at the mention of the Harpers. Manshoon smiled and, with slow bites, emptied his cooling skewer.
"Sarhthor will tell those of you who are professionally interested all about the known strengths and subtleties of spellfire. Such professional interest will be exhibited only by those who have volunteered for the dangerous but fairly simple task of seizing or destroying this Shandril, and bringing what remains of her in either case here to this hall.
"You all know that something wild and uncontrolled has crept into the Art of late. This chaos may or may not be linked with spellfire – but it prevents us from surrounding the maid and overwhelming her with spells. We can, however, take her deep in the wilderlands, where we can act unobserved, and the unintended effects of such a confrontation can be curbed without much loss or concern.
"All knowledge of her powers and anything you learn or take from her will be placed entirely at the disposal of the Brotherhood. Hold nothing back. Those who fail to exhibit such probity will earn an immediate and permanent reward. Those who merely fail against the girl Shandril will have as many chances as they feel they need to impress us. We will be watching. As always." His eyes smiled merrily at them as he devoured the head of an eel, touched the bowl casually, and vanished with it in a flickering instant.
The end of the table was utterly empty again. Only faint wisps of spiced steam remained