Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [156]
"Thank you, thief," Anauviir growled. "I do know right from left, you know."
"Well, you are knights," Farl said merrily. "And if the nobles of Hastarl are anything to go by…"
"Where do the other holes up there lead to?" Anauviir interrupted. Helm grinned at his fellow knight's expression.
"Two rooms used by apprentices," Farl said, "but it's morning; they'll be up preparing morningfest and baths for their masters… and the last hole runs to a sort of reading-chamber, which should be empty… Helm and I will go on to the next shaft, which leads to Magelord Alarashan's rooms; and Prince Elminster's promised to show himself if the castle is roused, to draw the magelords into attacking him-and not attacking us… Any questions?"
"Aye," one of the knights said, spitting into the water. "How do thieves ever steal anything in Hastarl? Do they only rob deaf folk?"
*****
The apprentice let out a little shriek. Alarashan frowned. He preferred willing wenches, but Undarl had forced this one idiot male youth on him… doubtless a spy, and the man was hopeless at magic. When he wasn't breaking things, he was busily miscasting spells all over the place, and…
The magelord looked into the jakes. Ortran was slumped over on the seat, trousers around his ankles, and…
Alarashan stiffened. His apprentice was being thrust aside, by something-someone!-underneath. He strode forward, snatching a wand from his belt, as Ortran's body fell against the wall and the bloody blade that had slain him withdrew down the privy hole.
Alarashan aimed the wand, then stopped. What was to stop someone thrusting a blade into his face, if he showed himself over the hole? No, let them emerge, and slay them as they appear… He crouched low, waiting.
And part of the wall behind him slid smoothly aside. Alarashan had time to whirl around and gape at the secret panel he'd never known about, before the cudgel came down on his shoulder with numbing force, and his wand fell from nerveless, burning fingers.
*****
Briost didn't waste any time being shocked when the man in filthy armor burst out of his garderobe, sword raised. He lifted a hand, triggered his ring, and stepped smoothly aside to give the dying man room to fall.
The second attacker brought a surprised look onto the mage-lord's face, but his ring winked a second time. Something flashed over the falling man's shoulder, though-gods! The hurled dagger nearly took out Briost's eye. He ducked aside and felt a numbing blow on his cheek. The dagger spun on, and as he straightened to meet the men now pouring out of the jakes, he felt wetness on his face.
He'd put his hand up to feel, and brought it away with the fingertips crimson with his own blood, when he realized he hadn't time for such luxuries…
And by then, as the blades came at him from all sides, it was much too late.
*****
The scrying crystal flashed. Ithboltar looked over at it and waved an imperious finger at the thoroughly frightened apprentice, bidding her sit. Nanatha sat in hasty silence as the Old One, one-time tutor of most of the magelords, got up and glared at his crystal.
Obligingly, it flashed again. "Either… no…" Ithboltar growled and leaned forward to touch something Nanatha could not see, on the underside of his desk. He uttered one soft word, and the room rocked under the sudden tolling of a great bell.
"We're being attacked," the Old One hissed fiercely as a chorus of bells echoed and boomed all over the castle. "Briost? Briost, answer me!" He leaned forward over the crystal, muttering-and then his eyes widened at what he saw in its depths, and he thrust a hand into the breast of his robes, tearing them open in his frantic haste. Nanatha saw white grizzled hair on a sunken chest as Ithboltar found what he was seeking-some sort of gem-adorned skullcap-and pulled it onto his head,