Evenfeast was served in the feast hall to Lord Halaunt and the three surviving guests, who had grown understandably wary. They shot sharp glares in all directions, often. And were more sharp and difficult than ever. As Myrmeen put it, peering through the doorway at them, “Just three now, but that’s still too many.” “You don’t like wizards?” Mirt asked her. “Or you want them to choose the winner of the Lost Spell by whittling themselves down to just one mage still standing?” “I don’t like these wizards,” Myrmeen replied. “The Harpell possibly excepted. And don’t tempt me; as cook, I can whittle by poison all too easily.” Lord Halaunt was visibly dozing over his wine, down at his end of the table. Around the other end of it, Manshoon, Shaaan, and Malchor conversed in low tones, as if fearing being overheard. Mirt eavesdropped shamelessly anyway, as he set down steaming platters for them, and was roundly ignored.
