replied dryly. “Yet I’ve not been sane for these last thousand-some years, so thy point strays wide and leaves me unskewered. Manshoon yonder has been threatening me for more than a century—or rather, various of him have—yet here I still stand. That should tell thee something.”
“I,” Maraunth Torr said a trifle coldly, “am not Manshoon.”
“Aye,” El replied, almost purring out the words. “I’d noticed.”
Maraunth Torr reddened around the temples, a blush that spread down the line of his jaw as it tightened.
Ah, yes , that smarts. Ye very want to achieve as much as Manshoon, or at least assume half the mantle of his infamy . Smiling serenely at the glowering wizard, Elminster strolled on.
To find Yusendre suddenly in front of him, gliding to a stop with a little smile and nod of greeting.
“Bad form,” she commented, holding up her empty glass.
“What’s bad form?” he asked politely, selecting a decanter, proffering it, and when she nodded acceptance, refilling her glass.
“I know not what the scaled woman and Saer Torr said to you at first,” she replied, “but I know they both ended by uttering threats. They’re not accustomed to hiding their true feelings, so I or anyone who cares to can easily read their tone of voice, or facial expressions … proper little tyrants, the pair of them.”
“Whereas you are a proper little—what?” El asked her lightly.
“Would-be friend. Kindness and friendship achieve much more than fear, outright threat, and glowering menace.”
“So, Yusendre, is this the ‘sleep with me, Elminster; my price is merely the Lost Spell’ gambit?” Malchor murmured, from where he’d drifted up behind her.
She gave him a pleasant smile that held no hint of irritation. “Why not? Fun to play, even if it fails, hmm?” And turned her gaze back to Elminster, a clear promise in her eyes.
“Thy beauty and thy spirit are both … admirable,” El replied, “yet I have known the beauty and spirit of the goddess I serve, and it has … tempered me, as a swordsmith tempers a blade, in matters of seduction.”
Oooh, hearken to the man. I’ll just bet your blade is tempered! Alusair commented wickedly.
I thought it a suitably arch comment, myself , El thought back at her, letting her feel his amusement.
Around and between them, as decanters were emptied much faster than the cheese was disappearing, some of the guests were trading murmured threats, and others seemed to be tentatively trying to establish alliances.
The male Elder of Nimbral seemed irritated. “Though we’ve been here but a short time,” he complained to Malchor Harpell, “this entire situation has, to me, the feel of a cage, wherein we who seek the Lost Spell are confined until one of us wins it—and is thereby handed the chance to slaughter the rest of us, his or her conveniently gathered rivals.”
Malchor sighed. “Try not to say such things too freely, and impart ideas to those who just might try to make them reality. I’d rather not see dead bodies strewn everywhere around this nice old house. Just think what all of us gathered here in this room could achieve if we mustered all of our Art and worked together!”
“ That will never happen,” Skouloun said flatly. “Not even if any of us were crazed enough to want it to.”
Malchor sighed a little sadly. “A realist, I see,” he said, staring at the Elder of Nimbral. “You and your kind always take all the fun out of things.”
And he turned on his heel and strode away. In his wake, Skouloun sniffed disparagingly, shrugged, and then departed in the direction of the nearest decanter.
Leaving Alastra Hathwinter, who’d been edging up behind Malchor, all alone in the suddenly vacated spot. She stared after Malchor longingly.
Then she took a step after him, and another, started to gather speed—and then stopped abruptly, some of the color draining from her face.
Elminster came to a stop beside her and murmured,
“I,” Maraunth Torr said a trifle coldly, “am not Manshoon.”
“Aye,” El replied, almost purring out the words. “I’d noticed.”
Maraunth Torr reddened around the temples, a blush that spread down the line of his jaw as it tightened.
Ah, yes , that smarts. Ye very want to achieve as much as Manshoon, or at least assume half the mantle of his infamy . Smiling serenely at the glowering wizard, Elminster strolled on.
To find Yusendre suddenly in front of him, gliding to a stop with a little smile and nod of greeting.
“Bad form,” she commented, holding up her empty glass.
“What’s bad form?” he asked politely, selecting a decanter, proffering it, and when she nodded acceptance, refilling her glass.
“I know not what the scaled woman and Saer Torr said to you at first,” she replied, “but I know they both ended by uttering threats. They’re not accustomed to hiding their true feelings, so I or anyone who cares to can easily read their tone of voice, or facial expressions … proper little tyrants, the pair of them.”
“Whereas you are a proper little—what?” El asked her lightly.
“Would-be friend. Kindness and friendship achieve much more than fear, outright threat, and glowering menace.”
“So, Yusendre, is this the ‘sleep with me, Elminster; my price is merely the Lost Spell’ gambit?” Malchor murmured, from where he’d drifted up behind her.
She gave him a pleasant smile that held no hint of irritation. “Why not? Fun to play, even if it fails, hmm?” And turned her gaze back to Elminster, a clear promise in her eyes.
“Thy beauty and thy spirit are both … admirable,” El replied, “yet I have known the beauty and spirit of the goddess I serve, and it has … tempered me, as a swordsmith tempers a blade, in matters of seduction.”
Oooh, hearken to the man. I’ll just bet your blade is tempered! Alusair commented wickedly.
I thought it a suitably arch comment, myself , El thought back at her, letting her feel his amusement.
Around and between them, as decanters were emptied much faster than the cheese was disappearing, some of the guests were trading murmured threats, and others seemed to be tentatively trying to establish alliances.
The male Elder of Nimbral seemed irritated. “Though we’ve been here but a short time,” he complained to Malchor Harpell, “this entire situation has, to me, the feel of a cage, wherein we who seek the Lost Spell are confined until one of us wins it—and is thereby handed the chance to slaughter the rest of us, his or her conveniently gathered rivals.”
Malchor sighed. “Try not to say such things too freely, and impart ideas to those who just might try to make them reality. I’d rather not see dead bodies strewn everywhere around this nice old house. Just think what all of us gathered here in this room could achieve if we mustered all of our Art and worked together!”
“ That will never happen,” Skouloun said flatly. “Not even if any of us were crazed enough to want it to.”
Malchor sighed a little sadly. “A realist, I see,” he said, staring at the Elder of Nimbral. “You and your kind always take all the fun out of things.”
And he turned on his heel and strode away. In his wake, Skouloun sniffed disparagingly, shrugged, and then departed in the direction of the nearest decanter.
Leaving Alastra Hathwinter, who’d been edging up behind Malchor, all alone in the suddenly vacated spot. She stared after Malchor longingly.
Then she took a step after him, and another, started to gather speed—and then stopped abruptly, some of the color draining from her face.
Elminster came to a stop beside her and murmured,
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