“Overlong lives?”

“You make an admirable echo, good Sraunter, but someone-nay, several someones-have espied your lit lamps and approach your shop entrance. So open the cage and close this door. Now.”

The next few moments were a whirlwind of panting activity for Immaero Sraunter, and his accustomed feelings of grim superiority and darkly sinister accomplishment had quite vanished by the time he found himself puffing and panting his way back through the curtain to blink at the customers shuffling into the gloom of his shop.

Manshoon had vanished sometime during that whirlwind, Sraunter knew not quite where, but he was uncomfortably aware that five beholderkin that could slay him or almost any Suzailan with casual ease roamed free in his strongroom-where he kept his poisons, his best drinkables, and most of his coin.

Not that this undesirable state of affairs would continue for long, if his suspicions were correct. And when it came to matters of personal misfortune for Immaero Sraunter, they usually were.

The boldest shopper’s request struck his ears, then, and he heard himself answering it with the ease of long habit.

“Dragonmere eel essence, Goodwife? Well, there’s not a lot of call for that, particularly at this time of night, but-”

Arclath’s face hardened. “Trust? Trust? Hah, you don’t fool me, wizard! It’s you in there, Elminster, and you have my lady ruined or bound silent. She’s a mask you put on when you seek to deceive me!”

He sliced the air with his sword, weaving a glittering wall of steel as he took two slow, menacing steps forward, forcing his beloved back.

She looked so hurt, through her tears…

He scowled, reminding himself that this was really Elminster, just using his Amarune’s body. “You must cease this evil of riding living folk! Right now!”