The Sword Never Sleeps

by Greenwood, Ed

  In the play Karnoth’s Homecoming

  by Chanathra Jestryl, Lady Bard of Yhaunn

  First performed in the Year of the Bloodbird

  So you see, Royal Mother,” Tanalasta was saying smoothly, “I find the time I spend seeking to master the lute to be largely wasted, and I would prefer to—”

  “Sire!” Alusair burst out, rounding the statue and looking to her father. “Pray pardon for the interruption, but I—”

  “Luse, darling,” Queen Filfaeril said firmly, “you are ‘storming angrily.’ Again. Is the realm being invaded?”

  “No, but—” Alusair looked helplessly at her father, but he merely gestured that she should attend her mother.

  “Is the palace on fire?”

  “No, Mother, but—”

  “If, as I suspect, your concern is primarily with a slight done to you,” the Dragon Queen said calmly, “then you need not interrupt our private converse with Tanalasta quite so precipitously.”

  “Mother, I can speak with you later,” Crown Princess Tanalasta put in smoothly, giving her younger sister a look of cold scorn. “I have learned a little patience.”

  “Stay,” the queen said softly, bending her gaze to meet Alusair’s blazing eyes. “Your matter is not trivial. Perhaps what Alusair is bursting to tell us is not, either. Daughter?”

  This last word was clearly addressed to Alusair, who bit her lips to quell the curse that sprang to mind, and forced herself to ask quietly, “Royal Mother, have I leave to speak?”

  Queen Filfaeril nodded. “Please do. Better to spew than explode.”

  The king smiled slightly.

  Alusair sighed, threw back her head, and announced, “I have just learned that Royal Magician Vangerdahast sent my personal champion off to the northeasternmost corner of the realm on a mission that bids fair to get him killed and forbade him to inform me that he was going! I want—”

  “Luse,” her father broke in calmly, “hold hard a moment. I didn’t know you had a personal champion. Who is this paragon, and how came you to have him?”

  Alusair sighed, closed her eyes, opened them again, and said, “Earlier this day, I named Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul of the Purple Dragons my personal champion. To Vangey’s face I proclaimed him thus and told our good Royal Magician that as I now had a champion to protect me, the war wizards he was assigning to spy upon my every last nose-picking and chamber pot-filling moment—”

  “Ohh!” Tanalasta exclaimed in disgust. “Must you mention such things? Really!”

  “I can well believe that you no longer use chamber pots,” Alusair snapped at her sister. “In fact, that explains some things.”

  She turned her glare back to her parents before anyone could admonish her and added crisply, “Yet I digress. As I was saying, I informed him that his spies were no longer needed to be nannies and sneaks and jailers upon me—all three at once and every moment of my life, waking and otherwise. The Royal Magician openly sneered at me and said he took no orders from me, so I set him straight on that—and departed his company. Only to learn that the moment he’d seen my back, he summoned the ornrion and sent him off to be killed, doing this wholly to flout my will and hurl his disobedience into my very teeth!”

  “And so?” the king asked gently.

  “And so I want him disciplined—for once!—and Dauntless brought back to me.”

  “Disciplined?” the queen asked. “Disciplined how, exactly?”

  Tanalasta rolled her eyes. “She’s going to say ‘horsewhipped,’ Mother!”

  Alusair gave her sister a look that had drawn daggers in it, and then turned back to the Queen of Cormyr and snapped defiantly, “Publicly horsewhipped. For a start.”

  Her father made a sound that might have been a suppressed snort of amusement—but when all three Obarskyr females looked sharply at him, they found his face stern and wearing the beginnings of a real frown.

  “Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr,” Queen Filfaeril began, almost sweetly, and both of her daughters stiffened. The use of a full formal name meant trouble.

  “I should leave,” Tanalasta announced quickly, ducking her head and starting for the nearest door. Only to discover a slender arm had somehow become hooked around hers and had become as unmoving as an iron window bar. The Queen of Cormyr was stronger than she looked.

  “Stay and attend, Crown Princess,” her mother said softly in an order as absolute as if she’d thundered it. “You are to heed and remember our words now, just as surely as your sister must.”

  Azoun cleared his throat. Again all three of his kin shot looks his way, but he merely held out his hand toward his wife, indicating that she was to proceed.

  The Queen of Cormyr lifted her jaw just as Alusair had done earlier, drew in an unhurried breath, and said, “A time will come when you two princesses may freely give royal commands to the wizard Vangerdahast and will see good need to do so. That time may well, however, be years hence. For now, you are to obey him utterly, unless his orders contradict those of myself or your father—and even then, hear and consider his will.”

  The king nodded.

  Filfaeril raised one finger to indicate him and slowed her speech to give each of her words weight, to impress their gravity on the two listening princesses.

  “Your sire sits upon the Dragon Throne, but Vangerdahast is the Dragon Throne. We cannot rule the nearest chamber pot, full or empty, without him, and if he should fall dead in our moment of need, so too will Cormyr fall. Whereas if I fall, or your father does, Vangerdahast will see to it that the realm survives. If he demands you appear before him naked, thrice a day and before all the Court, you will do it. Or that horsewhip shall see use—and not upon him.”

  Both of her daughters stared at her, suddenly needing to swallow and barely remembering how to do it.

  Their mother leaned forward a little. “As one who has gone before you, and as a woman, I quite understand the irritation and embarrassment—nay, shame is not too strong a word—that the ever-present spying of our Wizards of War visits upon you. As one who has been the age you are now, daughter Alusair, I know how much this must chafe and set you afire, when you see your every whim prevented, your wanderings curtailed, the adventures we all must have alone ended abruptly or soured, time and again. Believe me, I know how you feel.” She raised an admonishing finger. “Yet you are not any young backcountry farm lass. You are the future of the realm, an Obarskyr. You cannot have a carefree youth, and Vangerdahast’s high-handed meddlings have ensured—thus far—that you have lived to enjoy a youth at all. He has personally prevented at least thirty-four attempts on your life that he has told me about—”

  “Sixty-three,” Azoun interrupted. “As of yestereve.”

  Filfaeril turned to give her husband a long look, then returned her attention to Alusair. “And as you see, the Royal Magician chooses to keep secrets from me, just as he does from you. I hate it, make no mistake—and yet, exasperating as he can be, I trust him.”

  She spread her hands in a gesture of helpless resignation. “I must trust him. We all must. For he could betray and destroy us all with the snap of a finger, but he does not. Time and again he has proven deeply worthy of our trust. No, he is not the most polite man in Faerûn, nor yet Cormyr, but never forget he is a wizard.” She sat back again and sighed. “Strange folk, wizards. All that magic does things to their minds and tempers. The temptation must gnaw at them their every waking moment; they have such power and could just lash out at anything that angers them. Yet if they had—just a few of them, a time or two too often in the past—wizards would now be hidden, hunted things, with all the rest of us so fearful of magic that we’d bury our blades in anyone we merely suspected of being able to murmur a spell. And is that the way of the world? No. Wherefore, look you, even mages who are evil tyrants tend to hurl spells only when they deem it needful. And our Vangerdahast is not an evil tyrant. He’s a tyrant, I’ll grant, but Cormyr needs its tyrant. I dread the day when he is no longer with us. Who will keep us
safe—if irritated—then?”

  She stopped speaking and let silence fall. It was a long time before Alusair dared to stir and look to her father.

  “Sire,” she whispered, “is this also your view?”

  Her father nodded. “Every word of it. Daughter Alusair, Vangerdahast is too useful—too vital—to the realm for you to defy or annoy. So you will cease doing both of those things, right now. And show him how polite and respectful and genuinely thankful a true Obarskyr princess can be. Or I may go looking for a horsewhip myself. Or tell Vangey to wield it for me.”

  Tanalasta’s mouth dropped open, but her father merely turned to her and reminded her gravely, “Control.”

  Both princesses nodded soberly. The need for them to control their faces, words, and voices at all times had been seared into them so often in their lives thus far that they had long since lost track of how many times they had been lectured on the matter. They had even lost count of all the folk who had delivered those stern teachings.

  “Sire, Royal Mother,” Alusair whispered then, head bowed, “I hear and heed. Have I your leave to withdraw?”

  “You do,” King Azoun said gravely.

  The princess bowed as deeply as any courtier who wasn’t going to his knees, turned, and said to Tanalasta in an almost inaudible voice, “Pray forgiveness, Royal Sister, for my interruption.”

  Before Tanalasta could reply, Alusair glided away, back around the Helmed Lady, and was gone.

  Seething, she traversed the rest of the chamber like a storm wind and thrust the door open, uncaring of whether or not the doorjack might be standing in its way. The door swung open freely, though she barely noticed, and the younger Princess of Cormyr bent one shoulder low like a running warrior so as to turn the corner faster, clenched her hands into claws, and—

  Slammed right into a man who’d stepped from behind the door and must have been standing right outside it, listening!

  A more-than-familiar man. The Royal Magician of Cormyr staggered back a step or two from their bruising meeting to regard her with a raised eyebrow and eyes that held … sardonic amusement?

  In wordless rage Alusair launched herself at him, punching and kicking with a vicious disregard for his gender. She promptly and painfully discovered that he wore an armored codpiece under his robes—and that even Royal Magicians can be toppled by an angry youngling.

  As they rolled together on the passage floor, Alusair was only barely aware that in the dimness around her there was no sign of the door guards or doorjacks who were supposed to be guarding the door.

  She clawed, punched, and drove in her knees, spitting out curses in a raging stream that sounded incoherent even to her. The Royal Magician did not even try to defend himself beyond throwing his arms up to shield his face and throat. He grunted with pain, again and again, and tried to twist out from under her. When he thrust up his legs to try to spill her off, Alusair snatched out her little belt dagger.

  “Too far,” she heard him grunt, then murmur something so brief that she couldn’t catch it. A moment later, magic burned her fingers and hurled her dagger away. She heard it sing off the wall some distance behind her.

  “Not so easily done, sirrah.” She brought one leg around until she could reach her boot and thrust her fingers into it to snatch out a little knife.

  Her ankle-fang flashed out, she growled in triumph and found that the wrist of that hand had been caught in an iron-firm grip.

  A face was looking down at her from beyond that grip—an all-too-familiar face that was icily beautiful and calm, yet whose eyes held a scowl to match Alusair’s own fury.

  “Royal command time,” Queen Filfaeril said in a calm, level voice. “Remove yourself from the personage beneath you, and come with me.”

  Alusair barely had time to swing her other leg off the wizard before the Dragon Queen hauled her to her feet and started marching her back down the passage.

  “Mother,” Alusair said, “where are we—?”

  “Yonder maid’s closet. Or the one beyond. I don’t share your preference for horsewhips, Daughter. The flat of my hand will serve quite well.”

  “You—me, a princess—a spanking?”

  “Not quite the eloquence I expect in a Princess of Cormyr I had any hand in rearing,” Filfaeril replied, “but you seem to have grasped the main points. In here, miss!”

  A door banged.

  Vangerdahast had sat up to watch and listen to the princess being dragged away. Now he slowly rolled over to his knees, wincing, used both hands to thrust himself to his feet, and staggered off down the passage.

  He did not look back and so never saw the man standing unmoving against the passage wall in the dark lee of a tapestry.

  King Azoun IV of Cormyr was standing ready to break Vangerdahast’s jaw and knock him cold, if he could. Though he’d not have tried to punch the Royal Magician at all if the wizard had not dared to tarry and watch Alusair’s punishment, for his own enjoyment.

  A little relieved that none of that had been necessary, he smiled at the wizard’s distant, dwindling figure.

  “Those who deal in pain are fated to entertain it in turn,” he murmured. “It’s merely a matter of when. So reap this whirlwind, Vangey. It’s puny, compared to most of your others.”

  “Who’s there?” Aumrune of the Zhentarim asked sharply. He’d taken care that few of the Brotherhood knew where he liked to experiment with magic. It cut down on … the over-ambitious aiding “accidents.”

  The robed and hooded figure slowly spread empty hands in a “look, I bear nothing” gesture, and then reached up and put back his cowl to reveal a familiar face.

  “Mauliykhus,” the approaching wizard identified himself. “My deepest apologies for disturbing your work. There is urgent news. I thought you would want to hear it without delay.”

  Aumrune set his wand on the table, cast the cloak he’d brought to conceal from all eyes the array of clamps and stands and what they held, and strode to meet Mauliykhus. He awakened several of the rings he wore to glowing life.

  Most Zhentarim harbored thoughts of doom befalling their superiors, and he supposed Mauliykhus was no different. “Supposed” because he’d never found the slightest whisper of a hint that the lesser mage was actually doing anything to bring such a doom down on Aumrune—and because his own deepening judgment of the character of Mauliykhus Oenren led him to believe that the man would never dare try anything beyond, perhaps, a sudden wild snatch at a bright opportunity.

  And if there was one thing Aumrune Trantor was careful never to offer any potential foe—which meant everyone else in all Faerûn—it was a bright opportunity.

  Wherefore he came to a careful stop two paces away from Mauliykhus and held up a hand, the rings on it glowing in warning. “What news?”

  “Lord Manshoon,” Mauliykhus said, lowering his head and edging forward. He stopped, appearing not to see Aumrune’s stern “keep back” gesture as he looked back over his shoulder. “Best whisper this,” he breathed quietly, edging still closer.

  Aumrune took a step back. “Is it choosing a new foremost henchwizard from among us all, again? I have an ever-decreasing appetite for idle gossip, and—”

  Mauliykhus shook his head and looked nervously behind him again. “It’s not that.”

  “If anyone’s listening to us,” Aumrune said, “they’ll be using magic and keeping themselves safely far away from here, not tiptoeing along behind you.” One of the rings blossomed from its glow into a faint singing in the air all around the two wizards.

  “There,” he announced. “No one can scry us now without overwhelming that. And if it collapses, we’ll know, won’t we? Now—”

  He stiffened, then, as Mauliykhus put a hand on his arm.

  The lesser wizard did rather more than stiffen. He staggered back a step—and then collapsed to the floor like a falling blanket.

  Aumrune looked down at the fallen wizard, watching thin threads of smoke drift up from the burnt-out holes that had held ey
es a moment or two ago. Dead as last year’s moths and about as useful.

  Aumrune Trantor stepped around him, reeling a little as the two entities still settling into his head fumbled for precise control of their new host body’s limbs, and strode away, leaving cloak, wand, and all forgotten on the table behind him.

  He no longer had need of such trifles.

  “Lady Ironchylde!”

  The whisper was urgent—and loud almost enough to echo the entire length of this obscure, out-of-the-way, upper passage of the vast and sprawling Royal Court.

  Wizard of War Tsantress Ironchylde calmly finished locking the door of her chambers ere turning to look at whoever had hailed her. She was young and capable—and much of her effectiveness thus far, she knew well, was due to her ability to remain calm.

  “I am not,” she said pleasantly, “a ‘Lady.’ I am a war wizard, of low birth, as it happens. And you are …?”

  The man who’d hailed her was the only other person in the passage. Lean and lithe, he was wearing glossy black boots, black hose of the most expensive make, a black codpiece that might have made a jester snicker, and a black cloak that entirely hid his doublet and most of his face, too. He stopped every few feet to cast exaggerated looks up and down the passage.

  “Are we,” he whispered tersely, “alone?”

  Tsantress quelled a sudden urge to giggle and assured him that they were. As she did so, she put one of her hands behind her, out of his sight, and awakened one of the rings upon it. Just in case.

  “I dare not speak to you,” the mysterious figure whispered, scuttling nearer, “out here.”

  “And yet you are speaking to me,” Tsantress said. “Though you have as of yet failed to answer my question.”

  “So I have!” the man in black agreed, ducking his head and sidling still nearer, almost turning his back on her in his eagerness to look behind him—and then whirling around and leaning over to peer past her. “Madam mage, I am a Lord of Cormyr!”

  “Whose name is …?” Tsantress.

  “Not out here, I pray you, madam! Not out here!”