Then the Lord Manshoon flashed his teeth at them all in a smile that shone very white, and he uncovered the platter before him. Wisps of richly scented steam rose from the deep red ring of firewine sauce. It lay in a channel in the platter, surrounding the lord's evening meal: a dark, slithering heap of live, glistening black eels from the Moonsea, lying on a bed of spiced rice. A slim, jeweltopped silver skewer appeared in the lord's hand from the empty air before him- Smoothly, he stabbed the first coiling, twisting eel, and dipped it delicately in the hot sauce.

"Despite my apparent ease," Manshoon said, waving his laden skewer as he looked down the table, "our Brotherhood — nay, the world entire — remains in peril. You have all heard of the recent commotion among our fellows of the Black Altar, and of the matter of spellfire."

He paused for a moment. The silence of the listening Zhentarim wizards had changed subtly, and Manshoon knew he had their keen interest now. He smelled the sharp edge of their fear as they faced him and tried to look unmoved and peerless and dangerous. He almost chuckled.

"That matter remains unresolved. A young lady by the name of Shandril walks Faerun somewhere south and west of us, guarded only by a dwarf and her mate — a knave by the name of Narm, who is weaker in Art than the least among you has been in some years. This Shandril alone commands spellfire, imperfectly as yet. She seeks training from Harpers and can expect some Harper aid along her way."

The quality of the listeners' silence changed again at the mention of the Harpers. Manshoon smiled and, with slow bites, emptied his cooling skewer.

"Sarhthor will tell those of you who are professionally interested all about the known strengths and subtleties of spellfire. Such professional interest will be exhibited only by those who have volunteered for the dangerous but fairly simple task of seizing or destroying this Shandril, and bringing what remains of her in either case here to this hall.