Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [148]
“Larasse larasse thulea,” Marlin declaimed, and the room went icy.
An instant later, the blue flames sprang from the blade of the axe, a flood of fire that arced to the floor and then rebounded up again in an upright column, a surging, rising thing that grew and grew. With a darkness at the heart of those rushing flames that slowly … became a man.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
MY HOUNDS TO HUNT YOU DOWN
At the sight of a man in the heart of the blue flames, Marlin Stormserpent laughed in triumph—but his mirth faltered when the flames fell to the floor with a crash, like the contents of an upended bucket of water, and were suddenly gone.
Leaving behind someone who was not wreathed in endless blue flames like Langral and Halonter had been.
Stormserpent joined Windstag in gape-mouthed, astonished staring.
Standing in his meeting room was an unlovely man in rumpled leathers who was stout—no, fat—and wrinkled with age and hard living. And who was staring back at him with a shrewd, measuring look.
“W-who are you? One of the Nine?” Marlin managed to ask when he found his voice again.
“Do I look like a bare-behind dancing girl? The Naughty Nine are all taller than me, lad, and far more shapely, too—though I’ll agree they don’t make cozy lasses like they used to! Nay, lad, I’m no dancer, whate’er yer preferences. I’m a bit of a trader and not much more, these days, though I guess ’tis no secret I’m a lord of Waterdeep.”
“Whaaat?”
“Nay, nay, no need for awe and astonishment. I,” the old man said sardonically, drawing himself up in mimicry of a grand ruler and striking a heroic pose, “am Mirt. Sometimes called the Moneylender, and more often—hem—called much worse things.”
Marlin stared in disbelief, growing a frown, then swiftly tried to force the old man back into the hand axe, as he could control Langral and Halonter.
Nothing happened.
“Sit down!” he snapped. “And—and cover your eyes with your hands!”
Mirt the Moneylender lifted one bristling eyebrow. “Children’s games, is it? I always wondered what wealthy younglings got up to when—”
“This one, a lord of Waterdeep?” Windstag sneered scornfully. “He sounds like a merchant from the docks!”
Mirt dispensed a dour look. “I am a merchant from the docks, loud buck! And who might ye be, with yer scorn and yer fancy clothes? Ye look like nobles, both of ye, but I know every last born noble of the city, lass and jack, an’—”
“We are nobles of Cormyr,” Marlin Stormserpent snapped. “And you stand in Stormserpent Towers in the fair city of Suzail, right now. ‘Now’ being the Year of the Ageless One, as it happens. I doubt Waterdeep would suffer the likes of you to be among its lords these days!”
Mirt gaped at the young Lord Stormserpent and went a little pale. “Ageless One? Is—gods, is that how long it’s been?”
“So,” Windstag asked Stormserpent, “when do the flames surround him? And when can you start ordering him around like a slave? Or is he going to crumble to dust?”
“Lad,” Mirt replied, before Marlin could say anything, “dust is what we’re all going to end up as.” He winced. “Dust is probably what my Asper is, right now. And Durnan, and all the others I cared for, or—”
“Oh, shut your wind,” Marlin Stormserpent told the old man disgustedly. “As if we care about your doxies or friends or anyone from Waterdeep! On your knees!”
Mirt gave the young lord a glare and stood right where he was. “Huh. If the Realms in this year is full of the likes of ye, I don’t think much of it. Or of thy sneering friend, here.” He turned his disapproval on Windstag—who responded by rising and drawing his sword.
Marlin did the same, adding a menacing smile.
Mirt rolled his eyes. “And is this how converse is carried on in the Realms these days? Swords, is it? Not even a glass of something