He had to admit that the Lady Rharaundra Yellander looked sleekly elegant at all times, and breathtakingly beautiful, to boot—and just now, with her long jet hair loosed to tumble around her shoulders, and her strikingly cut shimmerweave gown, she looked stunning.
She’d have looked stunning even if she weren’t thrusting herself at him, lips parted and tongue licking them hungrily, eyes fixed on his with longing.
“I said much to goad you to anger,” she whispered, “so you’d remember me and think of me. And I would have good reason to apologize to you and … submit to you. I—I need to be humbled, by a man who awes me—as you do, more than any other I’ve met.”
“Me, Lady?”
“Rhar, please, Azimander. I desire not to be a ‘lady’ with you, but … a woman who deserves to be called something considerably more wanton.”
The elderly war wizard blinked at her. “You must admit this is sudden, Rhar.”
“My husband and our everpresent spy, the house wizard, haven’t both been apart from me for more than two seasons, Az. This is my chance.” She crossed her wrists, one over the other, and held them out to him.
“I beg you, Azimander,” she whispered. “Take me.”
Wizard of War Azimander Godal got up from the bench unhurriedly, straightening to his full looming height. The Lady Rharaundra was a tall woman, but even if she’d gone up on tiptoes, she could not have matched his stature. He looked down at her, face expressionless.
Rharaundra looked back up at him, rolling over onto her back, wrists still held crossed, and wriggled forward onto the part of the bench where he’d just been sitting. Her movements dragged her gown down, baring skin.
Godal took two swift steps back from her, waved at her to stay where she was, and half-closed his eyes. She heard him muttering a spell and lifting one hand to make an intricate gesture and point at the air. He kept on pointing as he turned himself, slowly, all around—then let his hand fall, nodded, and said, “We are truly alone. I must admit I feared some treachery on your part, La—Rhar.”
Rharaundra gave him a reproachful look as she crawled languidly off the bench. Standing, she shook out her hair with her fingers so he could see nothing was concealed in it, turned slowly around under his gaze, and murmured, “Treachery how, Az? This is all I have, and am. I would prefer to be more moonlit, mysterious, and teasing, but I am mindful of how careful war wizards must be. Behold this bench, yonder.”
She went to it. “Bare. Simple. Nothing beneath or behind, here against the railing. Nothing on it but”—she gave him a wink and smile, and sat herself upon it provocatively—“me. Safe enough?”
Slowly—very slowly—Azimander Godal smiled. And nodded.
He walked forward unhurriedly, undoing his sash. It fell away and took his overrobe with it, revealing a belted underrobe with its open seam down one leg rather than centered as the overrobe had been.
“May I?” Rharaundra breathed, reaching for the underrobe. Godal shrugged and spread his hands wide in invitation.
She took it.
“Leave your boots on,” she whispered, as the bench creaked under their weight.
It was some time later that she turned around, giggling and slapping, beneath him, and Godal found himself on his knees over her, his back to the railing—and it was then that she rose up under him, with a catlike growl of triumph, to drive him upright, chest to chest.
“Farewell, Az,” she whispered, a flash of triumph in her eyes—and plucked something up from behind him even as she shoved hard on his stomach, pushing herself back onto the bench—
And hurling him the other way.
Over backward, the railing she’d just unspiked falling away as his back struck it, leaving him to plunge head first, down into the dark and shadowed great hall beneath the balcony they’d been dallying on.
Azimander Godal bit his lip in sadness as the ring on his finger winked into life, slowing his fall to the gentlest of downward driftings.
“Just for a moment,” he said softly, “I believed you, Rharaundra. I let myself hope.”
Then his boots touched the tiles, and he cast another spell.
Up above him, on the balcony, the softly cursing Lady Yellander started to scream in terror. “Wizard! What’re you doing? Get out of my mind!”
“Az,” he told her. “Call me ‘Az.’ And I’m not going to turn you into a bat or a frog or a mewling idiot: I’m just reading what I can of your thoughts and memories.”
Rharaundra sprang from the bench and fled into the darkness, a door banging in her wake.
The elderly war wizard stood motionless, eyes half-closed, walking among the dark-with-rage murk of her thoughts.
Then he broke off his spell and cast another in haste, to snap, “Vangerdahast! Hear me!”
Godal saw as well as felt Vangerdahast stop in mid-word in a conference, and turn his head. Their eyes met, across miles of intervening Cormyr, and in flashing thoughts the two conversed—a few breaths of lightning-swift, silent speech that ended when Vangerdahast snarled, “Tsantress—find the Lady Jalassa Crownsilver! Mindshroud her and bring her here to me at once. ’Ware her magic; she’s been collecting baubles! Luthdal! To Greenmantle Hall, to serve Lady Amdranna Greenmantle in the same way. Murtrym! Do the same to Lady Imruae Muscalian, who may have all sorts of tricks to welcome you with. All of you, take any Wizards of War you deem needful with you; none of you are to go alone. Accept no delay nor authority to delay or gainsay you. Have those women here as fast as you can do it. You, too, Azimander!”
The link was severed so abruptly it left the elderly Godal reeling. He smiled, shook his head, and started up the stair, spinning a swift spell to find Rharaundra’s mind.
She hadn’t gone far.
The door was locked, and had furniture heaped against it, and some sort of magic waiting to sting him beyond that, too—so Azimander walked several rooms away, found the panel he was looking for, slid it open, and stole through the secret passages Rharaundra thought she alone knew about.
When he emerged in her bedchamber behind her and spoke her name, she whirled around, real fear in her face, and whispered, “What are you going to do to me?”
“Take you to Lord Vangerdahast. What he sees in your mind will determine your fate.”
Rharaundra trembled, her fists clenched so tight that blood dripped down along her knuckles from her own nails piercing her flesh. “Kill me, Azimander,” she pleaded. “Kill me now, that I need not face him.”
“No,” he said. “Come with me quietly, Rharaundra, and I’ll plead for mercy for you.”
She peered at him. “You? You’ll plead for me? You mean that?”
He nodded.
“Why?”
Azimander Godal stretched out a hand and stroked her cheek, very gently. She flinched, but then deliberately moved her head to let him touch her more easily. Her teeth were chattering.
“You may have done what you did to bring about my death,” he murmured, “but you did it. You could have just shoved me through the railing right away, but you gave me pleasure first.”
He put his arms around Rharaundra Yellander and hugged her. “And no one has done that for a very long time.”
Her sobs started even as the light around them changed, and they were standing in a room crowded with war wizards, Vangerdahast among them.
The royal magician regarded them, smiled, and said in a dry voice, “That’s certainly one way to fetch a noble lady of the realm. Remind me to try it some time.”
Chapter 22
AND I AM SENT TO TAKE THEE
With aid of minstrel and dancing lasses three,
I forth ride past many a rock and tree
My high lord calls for to speak to thy body
And I am sent to take thee.
Tanter Hallweather, Bard of Elturel
And I Am Sent To Take Thee
minstrels’ ballad, first popular in
The Year of the Lost Helm
The Two-Headed Lion was
the fourth tavern Dauntless had trudged into thus far in search of these suddenly elusive Swords, and he was in less than the best of tempers.
Therefore, he loomed up over the table of laughing, chattering drinkers, flung back the cloak that had hidden his uniform, swept his helm up from under his arm and onto his head as if it were a weapon, and roared, “You! Swords of Eveningstar! In the name of the king, I arrest you!”
Agannor and Bey were up out of their seats in an instant, swords grating out, and Dauntless barked, “Nel-vorr!”
A dozen Purple Dragons or more appeared out of doorways all around the taproom. In the sudden, tense silence Swordcaptain Nelvorr snapped, “Sir!”
The Swords were surrounded.
“Agannor! Bey! Sheathe weapons!” Florin commanded, his voice sounding far more calm than he was. He set down his tankard and looked up at the cold-eyed ornrion. “We happen to hold a charter, sir—in the name of the king. Given us by the king himself less than a month gone, now. The king I know and obey. You I do not know. So who are you, and why seek you to arrest us?”
“I am Dauntless of the watch, and have been ordered by the king’s Lady Lord of Arabel to bring you into her presence, for reasons that are her own. Will you come with us now willingly—or are Swords of Eveningstar going outlaw, and getting themselves hurt in the process?”
“As to that,” Agannor growled, “we won’t be the only ones getting hurt. The watch is little loved in most taverns, and here in Arabel even less. Were I you, ornrion, I’d go back to my barracks and think on a politer, safer way to get law-abiding adventurers to visit the palace. A written invitation, perhaps?”
Ornrion Dauntless let his lip curl, and Agannor’s face darkened.
“Well?” he asked, looking at the silent tables all around. “What say, folk of Arabel? Do we let watch jacks swagger in and just take away this man or that, on what might be their personal whim? Or do we show them what broken pates feel like, and send them packing?”
A scar-faced man sitting not far away looked at him sourly, and said, “Man, I know not where ye come from, but in this city the watch is to be obeyed.”
“Aye,” a burly carter said, turning to face Agannor. “For the good of all.”
“Obedience, not defiance,” a gray-haired, worn-faced woman agreed. “The law and its fair keeping is all we have to keep all here from boiling up into swordfeuds—so we all help to keep it. Draw steel, you Swords, and we’ll aid the watch against you, not raise hand against them. The Dragons are the hard hands we know; you could be anything.”
“Well,” Doust said, “that’s clear enough. We obey these officers, quietly and without giving them trouble. Unless they’re foolish enough to hamper the holy devotions of Semoor or myself—and I believe no Purple Dragon truly loyal to the Crown would do that.”
“You believe rightly,” Dauntless said, and pointed—once, twice, and thrice. “You,” he said to Florin, “seem to lead, or at least give commands to some of your fellows. You will come with me.” He turned his head to Pennae. “You, we’ve had reports of, so you’ll come with me and not slip away, or your companions will pay for it.” He looked to Jhessail. “And you’ve been reported to cast spells, wherefore the war wizards desire to speak with you—or should do. You also will come with us, and work no magic on the way or in the presence of the lady lord.”
“Our charter—” Florin began, but Dauntless raised a quelling hand.
“I know what Crown charters usually say,” he growled. “You were about to say that no such restrictions are placed on this lady mage?” When Florin nodded, Dauntless added, “I’m asking her to agree to this behavior, here and now. If she refuses, she’ll be brought into the presence of the lady lord bound, gagged, hobbled, and blindfolded.”
Semoor stirred, growing a smile—but Martess lifted her boot deftly under the table, and in sudden, gasping agony the novice of Lathander bent his head and said nothing.
“I agree to this,” Florin said, “but can speak only for myself. Pennae? Jhessail?”
“I agree to this,” both women echoed, finished their drinks, and rose. Around them, chatter started up again, and the air of confrontation faded away with the silence that had heralded it.
The Purple Dragons converged warily on Florin, Pennae, and Jhessail as the three walked with Dauntless to the door. Florin nodded to the tavernmaster as if he were royalty rather than under arrest, plucked a gold coin from his purse, and tossed it to the man.
At his next stride, his gaze happened to fall on a table along the wall beside the door, where a weary-looking woman—a shopkeeper, by her garb—was drinking alone. Their eyes met, and Florin blinked.
He’d have sworn he’d never laid eyes on this woman before, yet her face looked somehow familiar.
No, not her face—her eyes. Dark blue, wise, knowing. Yes, he’d looked into those eyes before! Recently, of course … in a tavern?
Dark blue depths … that flared silver, just for an instant—
An instant that left Florin remembering nothing of them at all, and trudging out of the Lion with Dragons before him and behind him.
“We can’t find Greenmantle,” a young war wizard snapped, striding past. “She seems to have disappeared completely.”
Laspeera sighed, took Godal by the shoulder, and steered him through a door into a robing room. “Put something on, and let’s talk.”
The tall, aging war wizard nodded and went to the row of wardrobes. Laspeera brewed thornapple tea, and had a steaming goblet of it waiting for him when he sat down with her, smiled, and waved at her to begin.
Laspeera hesitated not a moment. “Why didn’t you go into Lady Yellander’s mind when she first made her advances? ’Twasn’t as if she usually treated you so familiarly. You must have been suspicious.”
“Lady,” Godal said, inhaling the scent of the too-hot tea, “I have scruples.”
“Fiddlebats, Az! You went into her head fast enough, later!”
Godal cupped his hands around his goblet, looked into its depths, and said, “I didn’t want to know if she had … dark motives. After all these years, just once, I wanted it to be real.”
“Oh, Azimander,” Laspeera said softly, leaning across the table to put her arms around him.
Godal set his tea down with a trembling hand and hugged her tightly. After a breath or two, he started to cry.
“By the blood of Alathan,” Semoor cursed, giving Martess a dark look for her kick to his cods, “now what?”
“I’d like to feed that ornrion his own sw—”
“Agannor,” Islif said in a low voice that rang with hard steel to match the glare she gave him, “still thy tongue. Right now. There could be watch spies sitting at every table around us. Just belt up—and listen.”
“We’re listening,” Bey said, elbowing his friend.
Agannor scowled but nodded, as Islif leaned forward over the table and said, “I’d like the two of you to remain here in the Lion to meet Florin, Pennae, and Jhessail when they return. Depart for our rooms at Rhalseer’s if they don’t appear by closing time, or if any sort of brawl erupts or anyone tries to make trouble for you—and for the love of all the watching gods, don’t get drunk and don’t pick any fights yourselves!”
Bey nodded, and Islif reached across the table to take Agannor’s hand and mutter, eyes fixed on his, “Agannor, you have a temper. Conquer it, and ride it well, for all our sakes. Our healing quaffs are back at Rhalseer’s, remember?”
With a sigh, she added, “Martess, I hate to ask this of you, but I need one of us, right now, to get out there and trail the watch to see where they take Florin, Pennae, and Jhessail, and you’re the least noticeable of us all—”
“You needn’t ask,” Martess said, springing to her feet, “for I’m glad to do so. I’m gone!”
And she was, ducking and darting among the tables. “All of you,” Islif said, “watch to see if anyone follows her out of here. Doust and Semoor, come with me. Our first task will be to stop any
one who follows Martess, and our second to find new lodgings. I think our time at Rhalseer’s is just about over.”
“I think you’re right about that,” Doust agreed.
“And I,” Agannor said darkly, “am afraid you’re right about that.”
Horaundoon smiled down at his scrying orb.
“Well, now,” he said, setting down what little was left of his haunch of roast boar, “Islif certainly seems like a proper war commander. I wonder if she’s been the real leader—her and bright little Pennae—all along?”
The hargaunt’s trill told him it certainly thought so.
He wondered briefly how much hargaunts learned of humans, then shrugged, gnawed one last time on his boar, washed his hands in the bowl of petal-water, and hurried from his spellchamber.
A floor down, he rapped on the door of the rooms shared by two busy and popular lowcoin lasses. Kestra and Taeriana were rather slow to open their door, for neither of them was alone, and a hurried customer is a poorly paying customer—but when they did open to him, the men they’d been entertaining departing by the door that opened out onto the end stairs, he smiled into their eyes, mastered their minds easily with the magic he had ready—and sent them into a whirlwind of donning cloaks and boots over their daring silks, and hurrying out to the Lion.
The robing room door opened. Arms still around Godal, Laspeera looked up to see who was there. Just for a moment, she looked astonished.
Then she glared.
Lady Rharaundra Yellander, an ill-fitting war wizard robe draped around her shoulders, was closing the door behind her.
Laspeera said not a word, letting her silent glare speak for her.
The noblewoman stared back at her, looking miserable, and said quaveringly, “Vangerdahast is going to do something to my mind.”
“And so?”
Swords of Eveningstar Page 31
