"Crawl forward," Amarune murmured into his ear then. "Straight as an arrow and slowly, so as not to blunder into me. Without my guidance, there are several places ahead on our journey where you could easily meet your death. Very Very easily." easily."

"Understood," he muttered. Then, satchel carefully clutched close, he started crawling cautiously after her.

Amarune swallowed again. Fear was making her throat very dry.

She hoped her face was as impa.s.sive as she was trying to keep it. Her rooms had never seemed smaller or more tawdry.

She hated and feared her newest client and suspected the woman knew that-and was amused.

Only two lions gleamed on her desk between them.

On the other side of it stood the woman who'd put them there. Someone Amarune knew she'd never seen before; someone lean, lithe, and clad in black leathers that covered her from head to the pointed tips of her boots, hooding her face in a mask that left only her mouth and large, lion-bright yellow eyes visible. Someone who'd given her name as Talane and held a drawn sword in her hand.

It was a blade that drank all light, reflecting back not the slightest gleam, and emanated a silent something that made Amarune feel ill even from across the desk.

Its bearer was every bit as agile as Amarune and probably far deadlier in any fight. If she happened to want the Dragonriders' best mask dancer dead, Amarune was doomed.

"I've offered you fair coin," Talane purred, "and really don't believe you're in any position to bargain with me, Silent Shadow Silent Shadow. Or do you prefer to be called Amarune Lyone Amalra Whitewave? Only daughter of Beltar, last of your blood, whom the Helhondreths and the Ilmbrights would dearly love to find. They want their gems back, little Rune."

Amarune stared at her visitor, not knowing what to say, fighting to keep her face as calm as stone.

She knows. She knows all about me. But how?

"Oh, I know you don't have that chest of waterstars," Talane added. "I "I do. Pity they blamed Beltar for that little theft; he was more useful to me alive. Almost as useful as you're now going to be, little Rune." do. Pity they blamed Beltar for that little theft; he was more useful to me alive. Almost as useful as you're now going to be, little Rune."

Her voice became softer, yet somehow more vicious. "One word from me and Cormyr's proud wizards of war will be turning your mind inside out, learning all your little secrets and leaving you a drooling idiot as the price of their schooling. Which means you accept that that fate-or you'll be doing my bidding at prices fate-or you'll be doing my bidding at prices I I set henceforth, doing little tasks all over fair Suzail. I've ama.s.sed quite a list of little tasks, some of them too dirty for my hands to be seen anywhere near them. Quite a list; I hope you can flourish on mere sc.r.a.ps of sleep." set henceforth, doing little tasks all over fair Suzail. I've ama.s.sed quite a list of little tasks, some of them too dirty for my hands to be seen anywhere near them. Quite a list; I hope you can flourish on mere sc.r.a.ps of sleep."

She backed away. "I'll come with the first of such tasks four nights from now. Feel honored, little Rune; you are my new 'dirtyhands,' and I don't choose such agents lightly."

"Honored," Amarune repeated flatly.

Talane's mouth twisted in something that was more sneer than smile. "Four nights," she murmured, and she backed right out the window-and was gone, falling from view in eerie silence.

Something made Amarune hang back from rushing to where her shutters were swinging gently in the first gray hints of coming dawn.

She knew, somehow, that her unwanted new client would be nowhere to be seen. Certainly not as a sprawled, crumpled corpse on the cobbles below.

If Talane was flying, wriggling, or sheer-wall-climbing away right now in her real shape, and was in truth some sort of horrid monster, Amarune knew she should learn that as swiftly as possible...but in truth, didn't want to know anything about it at all.

So she stood where she was, panting as if she'd run miles. Panting in fear that wouldn't go away.

Why did life have to get darker and darker and more and more complicated? Why couldn't it be like all heartsong chapbooks, where every last mask dancer had a dashingly handsome n.o.ble lord fall in love with her, whisk her away to his castle to lavish countless riches on her, marry her, and dwell with her there happily ever after? did life have to get darker and darker and more and more complicated? Why couldn't it be like all heartsong chapbooks, where every last mask dancer had a dashingly handsome n.o.ble lord fall in love with her, whisk her away to his castle to lavish countless riches on her, marry her, and dwell with her there happily ever after?

"Farruk," she whispered into the familiar darkness around her. It made, as usual, no reply.

No matter how much she tossed and turned, her bedclothes drenched and twisted around her as she fought with them and conjured up scene after scene of discovery and doom in her mind, sleep was nowhere to be found.

Which meant she'd be wan-eyed and weary indeed when next she took to the Dragonriders' stage. Which in turn meant she'd be earning disapproving frowns from Tress, and far fewer coins than usual.

"Farruk farruk farruk farruk farruk," farruk," Amarune hissed at her ceiling, more despairing than angry, rolling onto her back and flinging her damp linens aside. "What am I going to Amarune hissed at her ceiling, more despairing than angry, rolling onto her back and flinging her damp linens aside. "What am I going to do?" do?"

Something swam promptly back into her mind. The grinning face of Arclath Delcastle, that airy, idle, free-from-all-troubles n.o.bleman. Heir of his House, which meant he hadn't a care in the world and would never have to work a moment in his life or spend an instant thinking about where any coins he'd need might come from.

She should hate him for that-did hate his ruder moments of jesting and smirking coin-flicking at her most intimate spots, and his everpresent carefree jauntiness-but somehow... hate his ruder moments of jesting and smirking coin-flicking at her most intimate spots, and his everpresent carefree jauntiness-but somehow...

Angrily she thrust him aside, tried to think of this Talane and who she might be, how to discover who she was and somehow use that to get free of her-only to have young Lord Delcastle pop right back up to grin at her, nose to nose, winking and smirking as he always did. As if he could be of any use in...

She stiffened and then whistled in astonishment, long and low. Perhaps he could could be of use, at that. Clearly he fancied her, if only as a night's conquest; that should give her some sort of reins to lead him by. be of use, at that. Clearly he fancied her, if only as a night's conquest; that should give her some sort of reins to lead him by.

As the old n.o.bles' saying went, "Dancers are meant to be used." Well, so are young n.o.blemen who can be led around by their manhoods.

But how, precisely?

Well...

Wouldn't Lord Arclath Argustagus Delcastle himself know that best?

She'd have to interest him, have to become one of his enthusiastic little whims...a whim he clung to for long enough to deal with Talane.

Which meant she must not not seduce him-at least, not right away-but lead him in a merry little dance. A rather seduce him-at least, not right away-but lead him in a merry little dance. A rather long long merry little dance... merry little dance...

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

JUSTICE, ORDER, AND R REFINEMENT.

Elminster stared down at all the sprawled and headless bodies for a long and silent time. The only movement he made was to fling out one arm as a barrier when Storm joined him, an arm that then pointed at the floor. It was awash in a dark, sticky carpet of drying blood.

"Should I-?" she asked, pointing past the bodies.

He shook his head. "Whatever Stormserpent came for-the long-lost Wyverntongue Chalice, most likely-is gone, and him with it. We've come too late."

He turned back a few paces, moved purposefully to the wall, did something that revealed another hidden door, and waved Storm toward it.

Obediently she ducked through it. "We're departing before the war wizards-and whatever Purple Dragons still survive in the palace-get here to blame us for this?"

"Exactly," Elminster said shortly. "We've failed. Standing and staring won't mend that."

He set a brisk pace down the old and narrow secret pa.s.sage he'd ushered Storm into; the strong smell of ancient and flourishing mildew grew stronger as they advanced.

"Just the two of us can't do this anymore, la.s.s," he added grimly, as the pa.s.sage split and he headed to the left without slowing, leaving the mildew reek behind. "And it's time to stop fooling ourselves that we can."

"Do 'this'?"

"Save the Realms."

"So we go now to find some comfy chairs and sit back to watch the world fall apart?" Storm asked softly, arching an eyebrow in devastating mimicry of his longtime mannerism.

El sighed, came to an abrupt stop, and spun to face her. "It's time to recruit successors to take over the task of saving the Realms. We need new hands and sharp eyes and vigor."

Storm studied his face. "You mean it."

He nodded mutely, and they stared into each other's eyes for a time. During which both silently found astonishment at how shaken this late arrival-this one theft not prevented-had left them.

Devastated and close to tears.

Storm nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving his. "Defending Cormyr from behind the scenes-even in the days when Vangerdahast prowled these halls like a sly old lion, meddling and manipulating and thinking he he was protecting Cormyr-was what we was protecting Cormyr-was what we did did," she whispered. "What we excelled at. The cornerstone of the Realms that should be, a world of justice and order and refinement..."

Elminster sliced the air impatiently with the edge of his hand, as if to chop aside her words. "We start training my unwitting descendant Amarune. Right now."

Storm shook her head slowly, wincing. "It will take some time," she murmured.

"Time we have," Elminster snapped, "if "if we start right now. Shall ye approach her first, or should Elminster the Terrible frighten and enrage her?" we start right now. Shall ye approach her first, or should Elminster the Terrible frighten and enrage her?"

Storm frowned. "I'll try luring her a bit, first. Then Then you can frighten and enrage her, if it becomes needful. In the meantime, start hunting up more suitable magic for feeding Ala.s.sra. In a palace so full of decaying and forgotten magical gewgaws, even after all your foraging, there must yet be you can frighten and enrage her, if it becomes needful. In the meantime, start hunting up more suitable magic for feeding Ala.s.sra. In a palace so full of decaying and forgotten magical gewgaws, even after all your foraging, there must yet be something." something."

"Heh. La.s.s, this place holds entire war wizard armories-walled away and ward-guarded, mind ye-full of enchanted baubles. This current crew of Cormyr's most puissant guardian mages knows not the worth or working of half of them. Yet seizing any magic of Cormyr is going to upset Alusair."

Storm smiled tightly. "Everything "Everything upsets Alusair." upsets Alusair."

"Aye, but la.s.s, la.s.s, forget this not: given what we've become, if she catches us at the wrong time and uses all her power, she can readily destroy us."

Storm shrugged. "I doubt it. The G.o.ds are seldom that merciful."

That feeble jest did not bring a chuckle from Elminster or even a smile.

After a moment, she added, "And didn't something or someone in these halls just come close to destroying her?"

The Old Mage nodded grimly. They shared another long look, then a mutual sigh-and with one accord turned and began the long trudge back out of the haunted wing, toward one of the older secret ways out of the royal palace. One that was least likely to be guarded by current and puissant Purple Dragons or wizards of war.

Amarune Whitewave was somewhere in the city outside the palace and wasn't likely to be invited inside anytime soon.

Not unless King Foril developed a sudden taste for skilled mask dancers.

Six pa.s.sages later, El stopped in midstride, glared at a certain stone in the pa.s.sage wall as if it personally offended him, then bent down to the floor, felt among the stones where wall and floor met, and drew a small block out from between its fellows with a little grunt of satisfaction.

Behind it proved to be a flat, rusty iron coffer that El persuaded to open with one firm bounce of his fist. Inside was a little pendant on a fine chain, such as a court lady might wear, a mask, and two gleaming steel vials, firmly stoppered and sealed. El pa.s.sed all but the pendant to Storm. "Nightseeing mask and two healing vials; ye carry them."

He put the pendant around his neck; it vanished entirely beneath his beard.

Storm pointed at where she knew it was. "So what does that do?"

"Read pa.s.sing surface thoughts. Nothing like a mind-ream, mind, but it should help me tell how many guards are standing on the other side of a door, or the like, as we go on from here. Back when Vangerdahast was building up the wizards of war to be what he wanted them to be, they established scores of identical caches all over the palace to aid them as they rooted out disloyal courtiers."

He straightened up and pointed at the stone that had first caught his eye. "See yon slanting chisel mark? That tells ye to look low, if ye're in a rough-walled pa.s.sage like this one."

Storm nodded. "Harpers told me to look for an inverted T T of chisel-scars." of chisel-scars."

"Ah, those were the caches that held poison-quelling as well as healing. They were for fighting n.o.bles," El informed her gruffly. "Not so many of them survive, and they were fewer to begin with. I remember-"

He stiffened then and fell silent, raising a hand sharply to command silence. Storm gave it.

A moment later, from beyond the wall on the other side of the pa.s.sage-a wall that must be very very thin-they heard a door open and a sneering voice speak in a loud and sudden pounce of triumph. thin-they heard a door open and a sneering voice speak in a loud and sudden pounce of triumph.

"And how brightly doth the spark of Tarandar shine across all the watching Realms this fair evening?"

El knew that voice. He put a finger on the pendant and felt the dark, hot flood of malice in the thoughts from the other side of the wall. So the sneering and sarcastic Master of Revels really was every bit as pompous and nasty as the wagging tongues of palace servants made him out to be.

Khaladan Mallowfaer, it was said, never did a lick of work and never stopped spying on his lessers, needling them, and decrying their work, either.

Just then, all gild braid and crisply uniformed magnificence, he had stepped out of nowhere into the path of...

El frowned and fought hard to steer the pendant away from Mallowfaer's malice toward the other nearby mind...

...a weary Halance Tarandar, just as the senior chamberjack had started the long walk from his little cubbyhole of an office toward home and bed.

All these preparations for the council-plans, revisions, and new plans to sweep away the thrice-approved, thrice-modified revisions...

Halance was anxious to get some sleep before he had to present himself at the court-too soon, by the racing moon, too soon!-all over again for the next day's work. However, the man who stood sneeringly under his nose, wearing his usual unpleasantly mocking smile, was eleven rungs above any senior chamberjack in the exacting ladder of palace rank, so Tarandar managed a smile.

"Tired, saer."

"What?" Mallowfaer was playfully jovial. "How so? With all the-ahem-powers at your disposal?"

"Had to use those powers in my dealings with a certain n.o.ble lord, just now, to keep the arrangements right for the big day, and Cormyr safe, saer."

"Oh? Which Which certain n.o.ble lord?" certain n.o.ble lord?"

"Not at liberty to say, saer. Sorry. Standing orders of Lord Ganrahast, saer; I'm sure you understand."

The Master of Revels flushed a deep crimson that Elminster could feel feel through the pendant. through the pendant.