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Elthaulin raised his hands slowly, trembling for maidmum effect. "Bane, hear
us!"
"Lord Bane, hear us," came the massed response. Elthaulin let the dark purple
faerie fire radiance ripple into view at the tips of his fingers and crawl
slowly down his upraised arms, There were a few gasps from the assembled
worshippers: the upperpriest hid his smile, That trick got some of the
innocents, every time.
He drew breath for the Great Invocation. Only Fzoul could speak it, by
tradition, but Fzoul had neglected to forbid Elthaulin from doing it in his
absence, and Lord Bane would not be pleased by its omission. Then he stopped
in confusion, peering at the back of the chancel. Underpriests had left their
places by the doors and were running in the gloom of the sanctuary, stopping
to bend over priests in the congregation. Priests were rising and leaving
their places.
What is going on?
In shock, he realized he'd asked that question aloud and grins were forming on
more than one of the uplifted faces below. Fury washed over him, and Elthaulin
strode to the edge of the raised dais and sent his voice booming out over the
confusion, "Who dares disturb the worship of Bane, Lord Over All?" Abruptly he
recognized the face of one of the priests hurrying up the central aisle, and
his expression grew pale.
Fzoul snapped at him in a voice that carried to the far corners of the
chancel, "Oh, stop that nonsense, Elthaulin. Bane has heard you and is deeply
appreciative. This service of worship is now at an end. I need all priests of
the rank of Trusted Servant or greater to assemble in the Robing Room,
Watchful Brothers, guard the doors of the temple; all who have not taken the
robes of Bane are to be escorted out. The Deadly Adepts are in charge, Haste
or perish!"
There were raised voices, and even screams, from the lay worshippers, but
others left as slowly as they were allowed, enjoying the sight of priests of
Bane actually running and looking startled and upset, Elthaulin let his faerie
fire slowly fade, and he stood watching.
Fzoul turned on his heel without another word to his Priest of the Chancel,
and headed for the Robing Room, priests thickly clustered around him.
Elthaulin kept his face carefully calm, but no one who looked at his eyes
could have missed his murderous glare, directed at the retreating Fzoul. His
dark eyes flamed almost as fiercely as the Black Hand of Bane behind him over
the lesser altar. The altar was giving off black fire, the first direct sign
from Dread Lord Bane in over a year. It was a pity no one noticed it.
In the Robing Room, Fzoul turned and held up his hands for silence. His head
still throbbed painfully; the wild spellblast that had brought his bookcase
crashing down on him had been one of the last hurled by the beholders in Spell
Court. By the time he'd come to on the floor beside his desk, it was all
over-the maid Shandril had vanished, beholders lay dead everywhere, and the
citadel was in tumult.
Fzoul watched coldly as some of the priests in the rear of the rushing throng
ran into the backs of their fellows before they realized the room was packed,
When order and silence held sway, Fzoul said, "A terrible threat to our
Brotherhood is attacking the Citadel of the Raven. I need all of you to help;
the eye tyrants were in grave trouble when I left"
If anything, the hush grew even greater. Fzoul could even hear the nearest
Brother breathing.
The high priest looked around with cold eyes and added, "The Lord Manshoon
recently established a gate magically linking the citadel with the High Tower.
All of you, come with me now. We're going to a place normally reserved for our
brothers of Art-the Wizards' Watch Tower, Beware-touch nothing and work no
magic without my prior approval, There may be many magical defenses. We go to
gain what magic we can seize, not to be caught in magical traps or mistaken
castings. I shall go through the gate first. Orders are to be followed without
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question from this moment on-death shall be dealt on the spot for
disobedience."
He turned toward the nearest door and, without another word, led the way to
the gate. Time enough for them to learn about spellfire when they were dying
under it
There was murmuring all around. Shandril seemed to be rising up through warm
water toward a lighted place, Not far away, someone was talking. Soothing
female tones, mingled with a deeper man's growl-she knew that voice! Mirt!
Shandril opened her eyes and found herself looking at a truly amazing painted
ceiling. Her eyes hadn't wandered very far along its curves and colors before
she felt her cheeks burnng. Where was she?
She turned her head. Lacy undergarments hung on a rail on the back of a
half-open door-with a whip dangling beside them, The voices were coming in
through the doorway from somewhere below, She lay still in the lush boudoir
and listened,
"I wish I'd seen that." came one wistful female voice, "Ye could hardly have
missed it," Mirt protested, "Beholders crashing from the sky, lightning
flashing from tower to tower right over ye, here! Ye-"
The female voice that cut in then sounded rather wisp, "We were busy, Old
Wolf, Busy at something that, if done well, rather holds sway over our
attention and senses. Or have you never known the attentions of a lady?"
"No, Belarla," Mirt rumbled. "I could never afford ladies, myself. I always
had to settle for women!"
He was answered by one dry chuckle, and one sniff. Then Belarla's voice said,
"Pass the ointment, Oclae-I feel rubbed raw, Aren't those towels dry yet, Old
Wolf?" "They're hurrying, they're hurrying," Mirt said, "I'm not used to thy
stone irons ... and besides, these towels got so excited, sliding over ye-"
"Enough! It may surprise you, Mirt, but when you've done this for a year or
three, you've heard all the jokes and smart remarks so many times over that
any feeble humor they might once have had is gone-quite gone."
"Don't ye love me any more?" Mirt asked in mock sobs, "That's another remark
of the same sort," was the dry reply, "Hurry up with those towels ... we've
got to be ready to leave the moment your maid is awake-or if she wakes not,
whene'er we dare move her."
"Where to?" Mirt rumbled,
"We've got to get her out of the city," the other pleasurequeen said, "There's
no place to hide a woman in a house of pleasure,"
"Don't ye have cellars?"
"The busiest places of all," Belarla told him crisply, "Too many men like to
pretend they're in a dungeon-gods know why! No, Oelaerone's right, Old Wolf.
We've got to move her from here. Half the soldiers in the citadel will be in
and out of here by next morning, My younger girls start coming in just after
even feast-and the first customers hot on their heels."
"Or something," Oelaerone said quickly before Mirt could, "I've been in better
places to defend against the Zhentarim than this old breeze-box, too,"
"If the Zhentarim discover Shandril's here," Belarla responded, "it's not
defending the place we'll have to worry about-it's dying well in the few
breaths well have left"
A chill ran through Shandril. Here were yet more folk she'd pulled into
danger, Mirt must have followed her to the citadel, somehow, and rescued her
... she had hazy memories of seeing him running toward her after the last
beholder had finally gone down. He'd brought her to a house of pleasure.
Typical of Mirt.
Her lips quirked, but she was too horrified to smile. These two ladies could
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