Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [119]
The Old Mage sighed. "The councillors, Shar. Among them are men still loyal to the dale, a handful who bow to Manshoon-all the newer members, no doubt-and those who were there before Longspear's takeover, seeing to the interests of those others in secret. Trust me. When my Art served me, I spied on many a secret meeting and took note of many, many faces. Most of the High Dale's councillors are more than they seem to be."
"And we're slipping away and leaving Irreph to that?" Sharantyr blazed at him. "All of them tired and hurt- Ylyndaera, Ulraea, Gedaern, and all the rest? Is your heart a stone, Old Mage? A gravestone for them all, perhaps?"
"Easy, lass, easy," Elminster rumbled. "Didn't we rid them of enough Zhent mages to rule a small dale, between us? While ye were so busy glaring at Xanther-the weak-willed one who wanted my wand; unless my nose has lost all smell, he's a Zhent sneak-at the table this even, I gave both Gedaern and Irreph identical lists of what cause each councillor serves, at least so far as I knew. Gedaern read it then and there, I know. I saw him go out, and later he came back and told me a name."
Sharantyr frowned. "I remember that. 'Blakkal' or something, he said to you, just when the Zhent councillor got up to leave. I didn't know what he meant."
"Aye," Elminster said to her in the darkness. "The leather worker. He served the Cult of the Dragon until Gedaern saw to him." He sighed again. "I doubt Gedaern will let Xanther live to see another sunrise, even if Mulmar leaves reading my note until then."
"Why wouldn't he read it?"
Elminster gave her a look that she could not see, but felt. "Everyone of the dale wanting to talk to him, his daughter clinging to him and in tears every second breath, and the first proper meal he's had for a long time -with too much to drink, I don't doubt. It would also come as no surprise to me to learn he's abed with Ireavyn right now."
It was Sharantyr's time to sigh. "True enough. I don't suppose the Zhent councillors will amount to much. With all the wizards Manshoon already had strutting around the dale to back up their usurper, he wouldn't have needed great warriors or mages, only good spies. And I can't think agents of Cormyr and Sembia are much to be feared, given that each country will counter any moves to gain control that the other makes. But you spoke of Thay. You're going to leave a Red Wizard running loose here?"
"Hardly that," Elminster told her. "He's a wizard, aye, but rather a decent sort and much too careful to reveal himself. When they come for him, of course, it'll be too late for him to do more than run. He's the local weaver, a fat, kindly little man by the name of Jatham Villore. I feel somewhat in his debt. Someone cloaked the Zhents' searching spells as we and the two Harper lads were gallivanting around the dale, and I rather think it was him."
"Why?"
"Will ye never run out of questions, girl? To shake the rule of the Zhentarim here, of course." Elminster cleared his throat. "We looked into each other's eyes, in the great hall just now, and if hundreds of years of measuring folk with my eyes has taught me anything, he's not quick to slay with his Art, that one."
Sharantyr reached out in the darkness, found his beard-it felt like the soft bristles at the base of a horse's tail-and patted his cheek. "Well enough," she said. "You've done what you could for the dale. So tell me, where are we going?"
She heard the grin in Elminster's voice. "By Mystra, lass, but ye're a keen, feisty blade! Well, then, this gate should take us to another castle-much grander than this one, but in ruins-in the Fallen Lands."
"Clear across Anauroch? How will we get back?"
"One disaster at a time, lass. Come." The Old Mage tugged at her hand, and Sharantyr allowed him to pull her to her feet. The stinking darkness swirled around them like soiled velvet, disturbed by their movement. Sharantyr nearly choked.
"What castle?" she managed to ask, feeling