Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [114]
Meddanthyr waited for someone to answer the cue, and one of the younger and more impatient lordlings obliged. “Well? Who did it, and why, and what’re they like? Curse you for being so secretive, wizard!”
The Sembian smiled. “Secrets are what wizards deal in, Lord Mhorauk. No one knows who did it, which is to say there are so many competing stories and accusations that we can be certain of nothing beyond most of them being pure fancy. Someone very powerful in Art, obviously—and any answer to your ‘why’ will have to wait until we know that ‘who,’ or we’ll be merely spinning new fancies. Yet I can tell you a little of what they’re like … and will.”
He sought to sip from his jack again, discovered it empty in an almost mournful pantomime, then waited in satisfaction as three irritated lords all signaled to the Favorite’s hovering maids to refill it.
A trio of jacks were swiftly set before the Sembian, who in priestly pious manner both smiled his thanks and contrived to look surprised at the same time.
“Right now,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice to gather all nearby ears to his words, “somewhere in the Realms, there are three metal objects—a sword, a rather grand chalice, and a largish hand axe, most of the writings say—that are the prisons of three of the Nine. Anyone who has hold of one of these can order the trapped one to come forth from it, or send them back in, and when they are out of it can compel them as exactingly as a willing and eager slave. A servant who’ll never disobey, tire, hesitate, nor feel pain, and so can never fail for reasons of weakness or treachery.”
Meddanthyr held up a finger in warning and added softly, “You can know these slaves by their flames. At all times when outside their items, they are wreathed in leaping blue flames that burn no one and nothing and consume them not. So it is written, by several wizards and sages who saw them nigh a century ago. They’ve not been seen since, at least by anyone who survived to write or speak of it. The three objects that imprison these three of the Nine, I should add, do not themselves flame.”
He fell silent, leaving the table waiting for more, but sat back and spread his hands to silently indicate what he’d said was all.
An excited babble arose, all of the men asking or telling each other the same thing: the murderers of Huntcrown had been wreathed in flames, hadn’t they?
“And how sure are you, of all of this?” Marlin asked through that chatter, making his voice sharp as well as loud, hoping to goad. He succeeded.
The Sembian turned to glare at him and snapped back, “Wise men know they can never be sure of anything when it comes to the Art, saer, but I know what I’ve just said to be true—and also know I’m surer of matters magical, large and small, than you’ll ever be. I’m well aware that nobles are reared to belittle their lessers and to think all who lack titles are their lessers, but such thinking is wrong, and those who cling to it all pay stiff prices for doing so, sooner or later. Be guided accordingly—or ignore me and be just one more noble fool. I’m a wizard; I’ve met many noble fools. They’re not nearly as special as they believe themselves to be.”
Marlin waved aside this blustering with casual impatience. “But three adventurers? Three, and no one’s found even one of them?”
Meddanthyr shrugged. “They may never be found. Buried and lost, or lying at the bottom of the sea, perhaps—or found by some dragon, who’ll keep the chalice, the blade, and the hand axe in his hoard and never call forth the adventurers from them!”
“That’s true enough,” Marlin agreed, sitting back to let other questions come, and the wizard burble on about other things.
Finding a largish hand axe was a tall order for one young noble, but he could call on six nobles to do the seeking—and thereby draw attention to themselves and not him—just as soon as he returned to Stormserpent Towers.
Though they