He indicated one paper. "Here we read of citizens slain by villainous, deluded followers of the discredited high imperceptor."

He pointed at a group of parchments. 'There we read of unfair fees and taxes heaped upon our merchants by no less than seven cities of the Dragon Reach."

Manshoon's finger moved again. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to report of open assaults on our caravans by the brigands who style themselves the Cult of the Dragon!"

The first lord spread his hands. "Is this not monstrous? Should we not sharpen our swords and ready our spells?"

"No," someone replied flatly from the middle benches. There was a murmur of laughter.

Manshoon let it run its course and die. "Yet there's more. Much more. The survival of our very city is at stake!" "It always has been," someone called. "Aye, show us something new to back up those old words!"

Manshoon replied, "Very well. Look, all! Look well?' He waved a hand and stepped back. The debating floor darkened. Motes of light winked and sparkled in that magical gloom, swirling suddenly into the ghost-form of a robed man. The stranger sneered, then raised one hand to shape an intricate gesture. A soundless bolt of lightning lashed out from that hand into the upper benches. Councilors cringed back-and then gaped as images of three Zhentarim wizards well-known in the city suddenly appeared among the benches. These ghost mages hurled back magics of their own.

The harmless shadows of sparking, slaying spells flashed and leapt. Manshoon stood calmly in the midst of their silent fury and said, "I call on the high priest of the Black Altar!"

Fzoul rose and bowed gravely. His flowing red hair and moustache stood out like frozen flames against the dark splendor of his robes.

Manshoon asked in loud, solemn tones, "Are these images false?"

Fzoul held up a gem that filled his fist and glowed with magical radiance. He peered through it at the spell-phantoms, then shook his head. "No. These images record what truly befell." He bowed again and sat down.