“Try to get a little more used to it,” she said. “Start now.”

Arclath sighed, sketched a parody of a court bow, and sank down among the blankets. His life had changed dramatically in a bare handful of days, and the changes still seemed to be coming-and coming faster.

He hoped he’d manage to stay in his saddle during the wild ride ahead.

Manshoon favored the three frightened faces around the table with an affable smile.

He was indulging himself like the most overblown nobles, he knew, with all of these leering, airy utterances and glee-but by the kiss of Bane himself, it was so utterly fun playing a dastardly villain to the hilt. And after all, why not? Who was to stop him now?

With Elminster dead, a blithely unaware and scarcely defended Cormyr was a certain Manshoon’s for the taking, if he set no foot wrong in overeagerness.

So call this jauntiness a reward, richly won foolery that, after all, had more than a century of accomplishment behind it-unlike the empty, sneering strutting and peacock-screeching of this kingdom’s young nobility.

Why shouldn’t he?

Yet he’d missed chances and marred perfect schemes before. Elminster or no Elminster, this realm was still a prize.

A prize yet unconquered which had rebuffed formidable foes before.

Moreover, it had too many mages-however lacking in spells, prudence, and cunning-propping up its throne to dismiss its taming as an idle day’s undertaking.

Chortlingly manipulating or not, he must keep to his plan. Part of which held that he must not, under any circumstances, publicly announce his presence or even existence for some time to come. He must always work through others. Overboldness and impatience had been his besetting flaws in the past; hereafter, he was determined not to repeat them.

“New flaws for old,” he murmured to himself. “That’s my road…”

“L-Lord?” Sraunter dared to ask. With a smirk, Manshoon waved the question away.