"Don't let Manshoon or Fzoul or their like hear you speak like that, Korr," the shorter, stouter Zhentarim murmured, waving his hands toward the floor in a mute appeal for quieter speech. "We're very far from holding rank high enough to make such judgments or decide any policies."
"No," Korthauvar agreed, lowering his voice to an angry hiss, "we're of the great middling mass of competent wizards of the Keep-not overly ambitious magelings, but not masters who give orders, either That's precisely why the masters should listen to us, Hlael. If we have such great misgivings, isn't it just possible that snatching at this spellfire is-ahem-wrong? A mistake that endangers us all, instead of dooming a handful of us sacrificed for the long chance at gaining it? Spend a few lives chasing spellfire, yes, but don't send us out in wave after wave to get slaughtered!"
"Well put, Korthauvar," a cold voice said out of the darkness above them. "Very well put. I shall remember your cogent arguments with the very precision you desire. No, tremble not-you're right. As much as some of us 'masters' may hate to admit it, your conclusions are unassailable."
Silence fell, leaving Korthauvar Hammantle and Hlael Toraunt staring at each other in terror in the dim cold, their hurried breaths curling away like smoke between them.
That silence stretched and grew long. When at last hope crawled back into their hearts and they began to straighten and breathe more calmly, the cold voice snapped suddenly, "Now the policy so cogently outlined by Korthauvar Hammantle sees its first application. Both of you-a handful of us, one might say- are now-right now-welcome in my chambers for a little task that needs doing: a little snatching after spellfire."