by Ed Greenwood
“And then what? How shall we find a successor if she’s gone?”
Storm grinned. “Again, needs demand. You’ll just have to father some new ones, won’t you?”
“Ah, thanks for that broth,” Delnor said hesitantly, once the door of the Dragonriders’ Club had closed behind them, leaving the two men standing in the starting-to-get-noisy street. “Very good, that was.”
Arclath shrugged. “Tables are like beds; far better shared.” In unspoken accord they set off along the promenade together, walking at a leisurely pace, as he added, “So tell me more of this tumult at the palace-does the king seem agitated? Or Ganrahast? Or is it mainly courtiers fussing and hand-wringing as they contemplate favorite possible dooms?”
Delnor winced and flushed simultaneously. “You know the palace well.”
“Well enough to spot a palace messenger looking for a way not to answer me directly, yes.” Arclath grinned. “So give, friend Delnor. Worry not; I won’t be asking you for guard deployments or whom our wizards of war are most attentively going to be farscrying. Just the general mood, and who’s setting it … or trying to.”
They’d been strolling around the great arc of the promenade in no particular haste but were already within sight of where it met the city wall in one of Suzail’s great gates. Arclath turned to walk into the nearest side street, entertaining the vague notion of heading to the harbor, when a fanfare of warhorns rang out at the east gate.
As the flourish had intended them to, they stopped to watch. A large group of armsmen on matching horses came riding into the city, a great clattering of many hooves echoing off the gate arch. The riders surrounded a string of richly appointed coaches.
“A noble coming to the council,” Delnor said uncertainly, peering at the pennants fluttering from lance points.
One glance at those banners had told Arclath the identity of the arriving party. “Lord Daeclander Illance,” he volunteered. “Arriving early-as he does for all court events he deems too important to ignore-so as to have plenty of time for tasting the, ah, pleasures of Suzail and transacting as much shady business as he thinks he can get away with before the war wizards and highknights actually start sitting in his lap to listen in.”
He grinned. “I imagine Rothglar will be more than a little annoyed. He has to rein himself in a trifle and behave when his father’s in town. Daeclander has so run out of patience with his eldest son that disowning him might well be a positive pleasure. It’s not as though Velyandra’s birthed him only a few sons; Rothglar has eight brothers, last time I checked.”
The riders started to fan out, to form a broad front across the promenade to create the maximum inconvenience for others and stir up as much notice as possible; Arclath sighed in disgust and led Delnor firmly into a side street. “We’ll turn south at the next street crossing,” he murmured, and they did-but soon detoured hastily back westward at the intersection after that, as a dung wagon came rumbling toward them, bringing its reek with it.
“I knew there was a reason I usually tarry at the Eel until the highsun patrons start to flood in,” Arclath declaimed-and then swore as a second dung wagon came their way, goading them into ducking up the nearest alley.
It was wide and relatively uncluttered and clean-smelling, as Suzailan alleys went-they could tell without looking for tall landmarks that they were close to the palace and far from the Westwall slums-but the courtier and the lordling soon came to an abrupt halt as a third dung wagon rumbled into the muddy midyard of the city block that the alley had led them to, and came to a creaking stop, blocking their path.
The drover drew a knife from his boot and with its pommel struck a two-toned chime next to his head-and Arclath and Delnor were mildly interested to observe that this signal bore immediate fruit. Many sleepy figures promptly shuffled out of the lofty back balcony doorways or stout back doors of the surrounding shoulder-to-stone-shoulder tallhouses, down a rickety variety of back stairs, and out through various locked or latched gates at the bottom of those stairs to proffer a coin each to the drover-copper thumbs-and then empty their buckets of nightsoil.
Delnor looked pained. “Let’s go another way. This could take forever.”
Arclath started to nod-then stiffened, plucked imperiously at the palace messenger’s arm, and pointed.
One of the weary figures who had just lowered her emptied bucket was the very dancer they were seeking. He said as much, hissing out the words.
“You’re sure?” Delnor muttered excitedly.
“I have seen her without her mask, more than once,” Arclath said, nodding. “I’m sure.”
Unaware of their scrutiny, she turned and stumbled sleepily out of their sight behind the dung wagon. They hastened after her, but when they rounded the reeking wagon, there was no sign of her among the trudging neighbors.
“She must dwell hard by, in one of these,” Arclath said, peering up and all around. Then he started purposefully for the nearest door.
Delnor ran two swift steps, hesitated, then dared to lay hands on a noble lord, and held him firmly back.
“We can’t scour out a score or more tallhouses,” he protested. “Most folk won’t even answer their doors; are you going to try to break them all down? And what’ll you tell the Watch? I’m Lord Arclath Delcastle, and I’m searching for a mask dancer because I-uh, because I-”
Arclath nodded. “Your point is made.” He stared up at the surrounding balconies once more, sighed, then asked briskly, “The club, tonight, then? Dusktide?”
Delnor agreed, then stifled a yawn of his own. As the dung wagon rumbled off along the alley again, he waved farewell, then turned and started trudging in the direction of the royal court.
Arclath watched him go then caught sight of a young lad trailing past with an empty nightsoil bucket.
“Lad!” he called and held up a copper coin.
The boy stopped, and Arclath tossed it to him. Watching it get snatched deftly out of the air, he said, “A silver falcon to go with that if you bring me a hire coach right speedily.”
The boy stared at him for the moment it took to judge Arclath’s fine clothes and sword then grinned and sprinted off, tossing the bucket over his gate as he went.
He was back before Arclath reached the mouth of the alley, a small coach clattering in his wake.
Coin, Arclath reflected ruefully for about the hundredth time thus far that month, can work wonders.
The coach was a swift one; he soon overtook Delnor and called up to the drover to stop.
“Don’t you have all sorts of Crown errands and inspections to do?” He grinned, beckoning Delnor to enter the conveyance with a grand flourish.
The messenger’s mouth fell open, and he shied back. “Yes, but not in a coach! I can’t be spending Crown coins like that!”
“You’re not,” Arclath said sweetly. “I am.”
Delnor blinked. “Uh-ah-yes, but-but everyone will think you’re buying my approvals and Crown business!”
“They already do. You’re a courtier, remember?”
Delnor sighed, shrugged, and climbed into the coach. “That’s … overly cynical,” he murmured.
“That’s Cormyrean,” Arclath corrected airily. “We border Sembia, by the gods! We’d have to be barking mad not to be cynical!”
Mockingly Delnor made a halfhearted barking sound by way of reply-but broke off abruptly as he saw a shopkeeper staring curiously at him.
By the gods, indeed.
Storm peered out of the secret passage again, then drew back her head and slid the panel closed in calm, smooth haste.
“Court and palace certainly seem to be in something of an uproar,” she observed.
Elminster nodded silently, looking tired and less than pleased.
As they’d worked their way through the cellars, heading south from palace to court, seeking a way they could depart either royal building unobserved to slip into Suzail for some Amarune-hunting, neither of them had failed to notice the large and frequent a
rmed patrols of Purple Dragons who were suddenly tramping tirelessly through the halls of both vast buildings-or standing alertly, guarding most secret passage entrances.
To say nothing of the many grim-faced trios and quartets of war wizards searching this room and that.
“They’ve found the bodies,” Elminster growled. “And that, plus the inevitable rumors of assassins and worse being prepared for the council-or by or for the nobles now gathering in the city before Foril’s little get-together-is causing all of this sudden burst of vigilance.”
“Well,” Storm replied, “our long-standing palace identities won’t serve us any longer; they know the Rhauligans are Elminster the mage-murderer and the notorious Harper who walks with him, now. Do we burn one of the baubles you took from those three ward-meddlers, to look like two courtiers or palace maids? They probably won’t be too suspicious of two dirty, work-worn lasses!”
“Frightened and suspicious mages usually suspect everyone of everything,” Elminster reminded her darkly, “and everyone of being someone else than they appear to be. They use magic for disguises, so of course they think everyone else does, too.”
“Oh, stop being so cheerful,” Storm said serenely. “If they’re going to pounce on us, they’ll pounce on us. It’s not as if we haven’t spent years being Elgorn and Stornara Rhauligan, repairers and restorers of the ever-crumbling stone, plaster, tapestries, and wood of these great buildings.”
“Descended, moreover,” Elminster joined in, almost chanting, “from the famous highknight hero, Glarasteer Rhauligan.”
They snorted in unison-and the Sage of Shadowdale held up one hand with a grin, drew a ring from his belt pouch, and announced, “Many minds, approaching fast. So we burn a bauble, as ye suggested. Thy typical wizard of war may be darned suspicious when he sees Royal Magician Ganrahast and his trusted Vainrence striding along a passage-but he’ll hesitate before he blasts them, I’ll wager.”
He frowned, there was a flash from inside his fist as the ring vanished, and a brief tingling sensation crept over them both.
Storm held up one of her hands. It had gone hairy. “Hmmph. Not an improvement, I must say,” she commented. “I get to be Vainrence, of course.”
“Of course. I’ll tender ye my apologies later,” El replied, turning back from the door that led into the overly bustling hall beyond, and seeking a passage he knew to be older, moldier, and usually quieter.
It was still all of those things and led them out into a dark and deserted room where disused furniture was shrouded in dust wraps.
“An old tablecloth of Rhigaerd’s, if I’m not mistaken,” Elminster murmured, peering at one of them. “Aye, there’s the stain where-”
“Hold, intruders!”
The shout from behind them was loud and sharp.
“Hold what?” Storm asked mildly, reaching out two rather eager hands-only to find that she was about to embrace several onrushing spear points.
“I thought I heard voices!” one of the Purple Dragons at the other ends of those weapons snarled excitedly.
An entire patrol of Dragons trotted forward, clanking and clanging as they hastily drew daggers or swords and rushed to menace the newly discovered perils to the Crown.
The Royal Magician and his Lord Warder Vainrence stood calmly waiting as a ring of glittering spears swiftly formed around them.
“Halt!” the patrol commander barked at them, unnecessarily.
The two immobile men exchanged glances with each other then turned to reply in laconic unison, “Aye, still halted.”
“Who-oh, by the Dragon!” The swordcaptain knew their faces and was suddenly looking decidedly ill. “M-my apologies, Lords!”
“Accepted,” Elminster replied with dignity. “Now continue your patrol, Swordcaptain. The enemies of Cormyr are, I fear, everywhere.”
“Closer than you think,” an angry voice said sharply. “Arrest them!”
The furious speaker strode into the room. “I’m Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake,” he snapped, “and these two men are impostors, using magic to seem to be the Lords Ganrahast and Vainrence!”
Purple Dragons stared at him then swiftly and frowningly back at the two men standing quietly in the midst of their ring of spears.
“I have just now come straight from converse with those two lords-the real ones,” Mreldrake added, “and as you can all see, these two are dressed as the Royal Magician and Lord Warder were garbed a day back, not as they now are.”
The Purple Dragons stiffened, three of them-who’d evidently seen Ganrahast and Vainrence not long ago-starting to frown and nod.
The possibly false Vainrence cast a calm look at his companion, who shook his head ever so slightly before sighing and announcing, “Yon mage is mistaken, but in the interest of sparing the lives of diligent Purple Dragons, we’ll not resist. Obey your orders, Swordcaptain.”
“I … I shall,” that officer said grimly. “Seek to work no magic as we conduct the pair of you into the presence of some wizards of war who will then interrogate you. ‘Bring us anyone suspicious,’ they told me … and you certainly are.”
“No doubt. I also have no doubt whatsoever that when he hears of this, the king,” the possibly false Ganrahast informed the Purple Dragon darkly, “will not be pleased.”
“You tell the wizards that,” the swordcaptain replied evenly. “They may even believe you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WIZARDS GO TO WAR
Mreldrake gave the Purple Dragons a nod and an unpleasant smile and disappeared rather hastily back through the door he’d come from.
The swordcaptain looked at the two lords who might not be lords and pointed imperiously at another door, one that stood open. “Walk that way, saers. We’ll be escorting you-and won’t hesitate to make holes in you with our spears, so try nothing foolish.”
“I rarely do,” the possible Ganrahast impostor informed the man with dignity as they set off, the Dragons shifting position to keep their prisoners menaced before and behind by leveled spears.
After a few strides he added, “I require your name, Swordcaptain.”
“Yet will receive only disappointing silence,” came the prompt reply. “I don’t take orders from prisoners.”
The perhaps-false Royal Magician stopped and spun around to face the officer directly, ignoring the spears that thrust at him warningly. “In the name of the king,” he barked, “yield unto me your name!”
The officer hesitated.
“As you seem to be a stickler for orders,” Vainrence put in softly, “suppose you obey one of the standing ones.”
“We’re required to give our names to Dragons of superior rank, certain courtiers, and … uh,” the swordcaptain replied, wincing. “Ah, Lord Ganrahast, I am Paereth Vandurn. Swordcaptain Paereth Vandurn.” He regained his gruff confidence almost visibly, thrusting his chin forward. “So, who are the two of you-really?”
The prisoner who might or might not be Lord Vainrence thrust a spear aside with one hand to wag a disapproving finger at the swordcaptain. “You’re less than polite, Slamburn, and I’ll tell this war wizard so! Lead us to him!”
“I am not-,” the swordcaptain began heatedly, but he stopped as he saw smirks appear and as hastily vanish from the faces of more than a few of his men.
Drawing a deep breath, he managed a brittle smile and said, “But of course, Lord Warder. If you’ll kindly proceed through yon door, obeying the directions of the nice men in uniform holding the spears pointed at you, you shall have your opportunity to speak to a war wizard soon enough. For the greater glory of Cormyr, of course.”
“For some years,” Elminster informed Vandurn haughtily, “those very words have been mine to speak: ‘for the greater glory of Cormyr.’ ”
“Ahhh, good,” the officer replied heavily, his smile becoming decidedly desperate. “Very good. The door, now, is just this way …”
On the far side of the ring of spears from the swordcaptain, someone among the stone-fac
ed Dragons snickered.
“Who did that?” Vandurn snapped. “Who? I’ll be requiring some nam-”
He broke off and fell silent just a moment too late.
The Royal Magician began the laughter, and the Lord Warder swelled it with hearty guffaws, but at least two Dragons joined in-and then they all did, mirth ringing around the passage.
With one exception. In the heart of it all, a certain crimson-to-the-ears swordcaptain clenched his jaws and silently steamed.
Talane. That name echoed like a curse in her mind, the chant of some dark seer desiring her doom … Talane.
One night, and she was undone. One night-no, less than half an hour-and her life had been shattered, her freedom gone.
She was caught in the ruthless talons of someone she didn’t even know.
Amarune felt exhausted. Bone weary. With a full night facing her.
Disheartened, the bards called it. When singing about someone else. She wished that was who felt that way, instead of her: someone else.
She pushed open the side door of the club and slipped inside. It was hours before she’d have to be up on that stage, but this was her usual routine, and what most Dragonriders’ dancers did: come early, soak in a long bath, dry off slowly in a warm room and have her hair done by Taerlene or Mrarie, eat a hearty meal, and then sink into a nice long nap. All of it behind the club’s closed doors, so she’d be safe inside, not having to run the gauntlet of leering admirers that would await her if she arrived later.
The dressing room was silent and empty. She frowned. Usually four or five of her fellow dancers who followed the same routine made it there before her …
There was something in her accustomed chair. A large sack, it looked to be. Laundry, dumped here by one of the maids, getting interrupted?
The door swung closed behind her with its usual slight squeal-and then her chair spun around by itself to face her.
Or, no-the man sitting in it had turned it with a kick, to face her and warm her with his easy smile.
No sack, after all. The Lord Arclath Delcastle was lounging in her chair.
