The door opened into just what she’d been seeking: a “ready wardrobe,” of the sort most palaces and feasting halls kept, for the fashion emergencies of guests. It was a large room with chairs and tall, tilted dressing-glasses, lined with racks and racks of gowns, cloaks, sashes, and the like.
And of course, it came with a dresser. A maid, now rising from her stool by the door, looking at Pennae in startlement.
And no wonder. Pennae gave her a wavering half-smile, only too well aware of her white-faced, staggering, half-dressed state. “Well met,” she husked. “In the name of the king—”
The maid shrieked.
Pennae winced. It sounded like a wyvern’s scream, stabbing right through her ears. She snatched a garment off the nearest rack, as the wide-eyed maid tried desperately to sprint past and get out the door, and tossed it over that still-shrieking head, dropping her hands to catch hold of the maid’s wrist, and hold on.
The terrified lass was still running hard; she dragged Pennae as far as the door, pivoting blindly around Pennae’s hold, before running right into the doorframe.
Still running blind with a gown around her head, the maid reeled back into Pennae, her shriek becoming a moan.
When it promptly rose back to a sirenlike wail again, and the maid started running once more, Pennae sighed, took hold of her shoulders, and ran her hard into the wall.
Which she slid down in limp silence, to lie still in a heap on the floor.
“In the name of the king,” Pennae muttered, “shut up.”
Then it was her turn to groan, as the room started to move. It was turning slowly around her, now, and things seemed oddly dark …
Pennae clawed at the nearest rack of gowns, desperately seeking something that looked as if it would fit her. Twice she had to cling to the hanging-bar and rest for a moment, ere grimly clutching at gowns again.
This one! It looked like a fall of roses, and was a horrid blushing pink hue, but Pennae was long past being choosy. Slowly, moving as if in a dream with the room still turning slowly, she shrugged it on over her leather breeches and boots.
The floor seemed uphill, somehow, as she stepped cautiously out of the room …
Pennae managed three steps out and along the passage—and then fainted, falling on her face right in front of the boots of a startled Purple Dragon, who’d been rushing to the wardrobe with seven Palace Guards right behind him, to seek the cause of all the shrieking.
The shield-hung passages, magnificently paneled staterooms, and vaulted- and painted-ceilinged great halls of the ground floor of the Palace were all crowded now, and still the guests were streaming in.
All in their finery, gems and false jewelry alike gleaming and glittering on arms and down plunging fronts and a-drip from earlobes, great sleeves of shimmerweave and other exalted fabrics bright and flowing, men nodding grandly to each other and the women on their arms tittering and finger-waving and leaning their heads together conspiratorially to share the latest, juiciest gossip.
The din was incredible, overwhelming upon the ears. Goodwife Deleflower Heldanorn had gone from glowing-eyed awe and wonder to a look of worry and brow-furrowed, wincing pain; one of her hammering headaches must be coming on. Her husband patted her arm and tried to mask his irritation behind a soothing tenderness he did not feel.
Servers were everywhere, sliding deftly past with platters of cakes and decanters of wine, ensuring every guest was well supplied. Arbitryce Heldanorn could taste the faint bitterness under his tongue, and nodded sourly. The wine had been treated to make drunkards sleepy rather than angry or boisterous. Of course.
“I—I don’t know how all of these people are going to fit into Anglond’s Great Hall,” Deleflower remarked worriedly, watching still more fellow guests arrive. “After all, it’s only one hall, isn’t it?”
Arbitryce Heldanorn, Master Trader In Spices, Scents, and Wonders, was one of the wealthiest merchants in Suzail, and had been in Anglond’s Great Hall a time or two; he knew just how vast and many-balconied that chamber was. Yet he agreed with his wife, and was pleased. She wasn’t going to say only silly things for once, after all.
A dozen Purple Dragons with the grand tabards of Palace Guards over their armor swept past, shouldering through the thronging guests swiftly with snapped orders of “Make way!” with a war wizard stalking along in their wake.
“Tryce, what’s happening?” Deleflower Heldanorn gasped, eyes widening as she clutched his arm. “All these men with swords striding around—they look so stern!”
Arbitryce smiled and airily told his wife, “Ah, but think, my flower: there’s nothing exciting about this for them. They do this sort of thing every day. See that one yawning? They’re bored as posts, all of them. They’ll probably welcome some pratfall or statue toppled over—or some such—just for a little excitement.”
Crouched over his crystal ball in the nearest ready room, a war wizard rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, Goodman!” he begged the oblivious image of the spice merchant. “Don’t tempt the stlarning gods any more than they already have been, I beg of you!”
A Purple Dragon leaned his head in the door, peered around until he saw the wheat-sheaf badge that clerics of Chauntea used when on healing duty at the Palace, and called gruffly, “Saer priest? Healing needed, down by the ready wardrobe. Some lass in a gown has hurt herself.”
“Gods, they’ve started already,” another war wizard groaned, a little way down the line of crystal balls.
Chapter 25
ARMED DISPUTE AND FRANTIC RUNNINGS-ABOUT
Swordcaptains look to you, and dying shout
Who now stands for the Cormyr we die for?
Amid armed dispute and frantic runnings-about
You can find no answer save “Bleed some more.”
Tarandar Tendagger, Bard
from the ballad
Bleed For Cormyr
published in the Year of the Howling
Florin Falconhand turned a corner. Was that light, ahead?
He quickened his pace, moving to the wall of the passage where, yes, a light was spilling down—down!—out of a break. Stairs at last?
Stairs at last. Growing a grin of relief, the ranger mounted the broad, steep stone steps in great eager bounds, hearing a faint din of voices growing swiftly louder. The grand Palace staterooms were before him at last, and—
Lamplight glinted on drawn steel, as blades were lowered to menace him. In the passage at the head of the stairs, seven full-armored Purple Dragons barred his way, swords or halberds in hand and stern looks on their faces.
“And who might you be,” their commanding lionar asked, “racing up from the dungeons with sword in hand and someone’s blood soaking that cloak in your hand?”
Florin drew in a deep breath, smiled with a confidence he did not feel, and announced, “I’m Florin Falconhand, Knight of the queen, and I must urgently speak with Her Majesty—or the king, or Lord Vangerdahast!”
The lionar scowled. “You were sent out of the realm, as I recall, and the lads up in Arabel were bidden to see you safely outside our borders. Now, I don’t know what you did, you and your Knights of Myth Drannor, but by the Dragon we swear by, I’m letting you get nowhere near the three most valuable persons in all the realm!”
He leveled his drawn sword at Florin as if it was a crossbow, and snapped, “Now throw down your weapons and submit to us, or by the Dragon I’ll put sword to you, here and now! You’re an adventurer, and I don’t trust adventurers as far as I can boot them with my toe up their backsides—and believe me, I’ve booted my share and more, down the years! Surrender, Falconhand! Surrender or perish!”
“Are those my only choices?” Florin asked, letting a little of his anger show as he started up the last few steps. “No taking me to your commander? Or conveying me to Vangerdahast under guard?”
“Not today, lad. Not with the Palace crawling with thousands of troublenecks, just like you, and we loyal blades stretched past our limits! Now throw down t
hat sword, or die!”
“Do all of you read the same bad chapbooks?” Florin asked wearily, coming up the stairs to cross swords with five waiting blades—and slashing aside the two halberds that came thrusting for him.
Those halberds sliced at him from either flank, and he backed down a step or two, out of their reach, and carefully set down the glowstone and Pennae’s jack on a lower step, keeping his eyes on the Dragons as he did so.
It was as well he did, because the two guards with halberds advanced down the steps to thrust at him again.
This time Florin rushed swiftly up between the halberds, past the heads, and clamped their shafts under each arm. He kicked out hard, hurling himself back down the steps—jerking both halberd-wielding Dragons off their feet into helpless tumbles after him.
Florin let the halberds fall with a clatter as he whipped off their helms and brought his sword hilt crashing down on the backs of their necks. The two sprawled guards quivered and then went still.
A roar of rage arose, and amid it three of the Dragons rushed him, swords gleaming. The ranger dodged to one side along his step and then swiftly back again, drawing the three hastening guards to converge—with clangs and jostlings—into each other’s way.
As they stumbled, Florin snatched up a fallen halberd and drove its blade into one Dragon’s ankles. He fell down the steps, shouting curses. Florin rushed after him, pounced, and struck him senseless with his sword hilt.
“Stop, you fools!” the lionar bellowed. “Break off! Get back up here!”
One Dragon turned to obey—and Florin’s sword chopped his ankles out from under him. With a yell of pain he toppled, crashing and rolling all the long, painful way down the stairs with many bangs and boomings of metal on stone … to lie still at the bottom, senseless.
“O most mighty Dragons,” Florin taunted, as he crossed swords with the last of the three Dragons who’d dared the steps. “Truly, your skill in battle awes bards and honest Cormyreans from end to end of the realm, and will be much talked of, in days to come! Behold: seven against one becomes three against one! Ah, but so bravely have those seven contended that no victory the like of theirs has resounded across the kingdom these ninety years past! No, not since—”
“Shut your tluining face!” the Dragon fighting him raged, hacking at the ranger wildly. “Just tluin yourself, you—”
Florin ducked, the man’s wild swing cost him his balance, the ranger kicked his opponent hard behind a knee—and the cursing Dragon’s knees slammed down hard on the edge of a step, ere sliding to a jarring landing on the step below.
The guard shrieked in pain, and Florin rang his sword hilt off the man’s helm so hard he dented it as it bounded off the man’s head, falling to clang and bounce its way down the stairs. The Purple Dragon fell sideways without a sound, out cold.
“Two to one, now,” Florin said to the lionar and the lone Dragon still standing up in the passage. “Care to join the dance?”
The lionar smiled coldly, took a swift step aside from the stairs—and as the ranger started up to face the last Dragon, stepped right back into view with a loaded crossbow in his hands.
At a halberd’s length away, he took careful aim down the steps at Florin.
Slowly Pennae became aware that she was lying on her back on some sort of cot, with men standing over her, talking. Several men. She was still wearing her boots and breeches, but the weight of Yassandra’s belt, with its wand and pouches, was gone. They’d taken the gown off, too—no doubt to examine her wounds—but laid it over her like a blanket.
She kept her eyes closed and her breathing slow, trying not to change the expression on her face, as gentle but work-roughened fingers flipped the thin garment aside, to touch her over her heart, the man’s other hand going to her forehead.
“This healing will go more easily,” a man’s voice—a commoner, by his kindly tone—said suddenly, close above her, “if all of you fall silent for the short time I’ll need. Hamper me, and you may soon be questioning a corpse.”
Someone sighed impatiently. “Aye, Priest, do your wonders.”
“By the will of the Great Mother,” the cleric of Chauntea chided. “The wonders are hers.”
He started to murmur words Pennae did not know. Gently, almost reverently, his hands moved—from her forehead to her lips, throat, and right breast, and from her heart to her left breast, her navel, and then under her tight breeches to low on her belly. Both sets of fingers then trailed along her, never losing contact with her skin, to the palms of her hands. The incantation ended—and Pennae fought not to gasp aloud in pleasure, as a sudden warm tingling arose and rushed through her, washing all the pain away. She thrilled to her very fingertips as muscles throbbed and relaxed, bruises and sprains vanishing and taking their discomfort with them, and she writhed on the cot, straining involuntarily up to thrust herself into those wonderful fingers. She wanted to grind against them, plunge into them, never be parted from them …
“She’s awake!” a deeper, harsher man’s voice snapped. “The little slut’s aw—”
“No,” the priest said firmly, his firm hand guiding Pennae down flat on the cot again. He feigned pinching her, hard. “See? I pinched her hard enough to make her shriek, and she moves not. What you saw was her body enthralled by Chauntea’s divine magic, not an awakening.” Those gentle hands withdrew, covering her with the gown again. “Let her lie undisturbed for a time; she’ll waken soon enough.”
“Priest,” the deeper voice replied, sounding irritated, “we lack the time for such niceties! There’s thousands of guests in the Palace right now, and more arriving with every breath! We’re stretched past our limits! We’ve called in Dragons from out beyond the Wyvernwater, and still don’t have enough! If we weren’t all spread out at every last door and passage-moot and stairway, trying to keep all the gawkers where they belong and a few of His Majesty’s sculptures and small portables where they belong, I’d parade this wench past every last Dragon here this day. If she’s from Cormyr, there’s bound to be at least one of us who’ll know her.”
“If you’re so overstretched as all that,” the cleric asked mildly, “why is it that there are six of you crowded into the doorway to question one wounded lass?”
“Holy man,” responded a voice that was both higher and colder with authority, “you are duty priest on this shift, no more. Do not presume to tell the Purple Dragons of Cormyr how to do their work—just as we refrain from seeking to direct your devotions to the Earthmother.”
“Of course,” the priest agreed. By the sound of his voice, he was rising from beside the cot and turning away. “I am no expert in matters of war. Yet all holy folk are skilled in talking to and counseling the injured, and I do know much about that. I am also a loyal, lifelong citizen of Cormyr, and as such a taxpaying citizen, I am curious: why do you not merely call the nearest war wizard—there’s one the other end of yon passage, as I recall—and have him do the questioning with his spells? Faster, and he’ll know when he’s hearing truth, and—”
“Something happened to many of our war wizards earlier today, which I’m not at liberty to discuss.” The cold voice was now positively icy. “Wherefore they’re … busy, and we’ve received orders that they’re not sparing anyone away from scrying duty to deal with someone who’s helpless and alone. The worst she might be is a madwits or a sneak-thief, not part of some plot or other, so she’ll keep. Or so they tell us.”
“So if she’ll keep, why not lock her in here, let her sleep, and bring all your Dragons by to try to identify her after the revel’s over?”
“Priest, stick to your herbs and greens-growing, and leave this to us, hey? She could be a sorceress just waiting for us to lock her in here, so she can cast spells at ease, in private, to bring this whole Palace down around our ears, and every last Obarskyr, war wizard, noble lord, and courtier with it! Now, out with you!”
“You’re very welcome for the healing,” came the mild rebuke, as the cleric of Chauntea depa
rted.
“May the gods save me from such well-meaning dolts!” the deep-voiced Purple Dragon said with a sigh of relief whose volume meant that he was approaching Pennae; a moment later, a chair creaked right next to her. “Anyone know how to wake a just-healed lass?”
“Slap her,” someone suggested.
“Climb on the cot with her,” another voice said slyly, “and show her—”
“Telsword Grathus, that’ll do,” the deep-voiced officer said sternly.
“Pour water down her nose,” Grathus said quickly. “That always wakes Teln, here, when we’re camped—”
The gown was plucked away from her, and silence fell.
“Nice,” Grathus muttered appreciatively. “Should we remove the breeches too? She could have all sorts of weapons hidden—”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” the officer growled. “No, I had her boots off earlier, and took out all the little knives she had strapped and sheathed so cunningly down there. They’re on the table, yonder, thrust into all the extra loops and sheaths and the like on that belt of hers. An impressive arsenal. So numerous, in fact, that I doubt she carries yet more. She didn’t look like a manacled prisoner shuffling along, remember, and with that much weight—”
“So, are you leaving the gown off to cow her into blurting out answers,” the cold voice snapped, “or just to give us all a good look? I’d hate for this to be, say, a maid of Silverymoon, who’ll swiftly tell her envoy what Cormyr’s so highly regarded Purple Dragons did to her.”
The gown was hastily returned—and gingerly smoothed over her too.
“She’s gotten blood all over it,” Grathus commented, “so she might as well keep it. She might need it, to keep warm in the cell.”
“Har har har,” another Dragon muttered. “I’m not easy about this. She doesn’t look like a sneak-thief to me.”
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