by Ed Greenwood
Elminster shrugged. "Ladies never wore them in my day."
Caladnei arched an eyebrow. "That tells me more about the company you kept, Lord Elminster, than it does about fashion-all those centuries ago, when you still looked at ladies."
The Old Mage chuckled, back still turned, but several un-derthings gently floated off a wardrobe shelf and past him. Caladnei selected one with the dry observation, "Ah, I see you know what they look like."
"I observe women still. Ladies, not so many."
The Mage Royal made a rude sound, dressed in whispering haste-a belt floated into her hand just as she found herself lacking it-and asked, "Should I take wands, expecting battle?"
"Nay. If ye should need them where we're going next, 'tis more than mere treason the realm need worry about."
Caladnei laid a tentative hand on Elminster's shoulder-then snatched it back. The Old Mage turned. "Fear ye'll catch something?"
The Mage Royal's eyes were doe-brown once more. "No," she replied. "I … I just wanted to touch you and live to tell the tale. Some say you're . . ."
"Afire with Mystra's power? A rotting lien whose joints crackle with sorcery? A shapeshifting, counterfeit creature who devoured the real Elminster long ago? Those're usually the most popular rumors."
Caladnei blushed, and then lifted her chin. "I've heard all of those, yes. Where are you taking me?"
"Stag Steads."
The Mage Royal arched the same eyebrow that had lifted before then turned to one of her bedposts, did something that swung aside a little curved door to reveal a cavity, drew forth two wands in a scabbard that she strapped to her forearm, and turned back to fix Elminster with a defiant look.
The Old Mage merely shrugged. "Ye must do what ye think wisest." He reached out his hand to her.
Caladnei eyed him. "The wisest thing to do now," she said calmly, "would be to flee you, not take your hand."
Elminster nodded. "True." He took a step closer and offered his hand again. With a sigh, she took it-and was instantly elsewhere.
An elsewhere that sported many leaves, dappled in the bright light of dawn. Caladnei blinked and stared all around, knowing by the view that she stood on a back porch of the hunting lodge in the heart of the King's Forest.
"How did you do that? No word nor gesture-" A round door set deep into the moss-covered bank behind them burst open, and a blade thrust out through it-straight through Elminster. Twice it thrust then slashed sideways, cutting freely through the Old Mage as if he were but empty air.
"Caladnei!" The dark-haired woman behind the blade was angry. "You've got to stop scaring me like this! I thought this was some archwizard holding you captive, not your own clever illusion!"
"Mreen," the Mage Royal said quickly, holding up a quelling hand. "This is-"
"Oh, gods" the Lady Lord of Arabel gasped, her sword sinking forgotten in her hand.
Elminster had turned around to face her. "Forgotten me so soon, Mreen? And something so basic as an ironguard spell, or-ahem-mine own modifications to it?"
Flecks of gold flashed in Myrmeen Lhal's deep blue eyes as she stared back at him with more than a hint of defiant challenge in her gaze. The white lines of fresh scars crossed on her hands, and one scar adorned a cheek that had been unmarked when last the Old Mage had seen her-but her figure in her leather armor was as trim as ever. Her glossy, almost blue-black hair held no gray-but there were two lines of white at her temples, where there'd been only youthful darkness before.
"El," she said slowly, grounding her blade, "you chase trouble across Faerun like a stormbird. I give you good greeting but with wariness: Why come you here?"
"To see the Crown Princess ye're trying to keep hidden behind thy shapely shoulders," the archmage replied, one corner of his mouth quirking into a smile that was almost hidden by his beard. "Ye should all hear this, mind, for it concerns the realm entire."
"Elminster of Shadowdale," the Steel Regent said calmly from the darkness inside the hill, "be welcome in Cormyr. Come in and unfold the bad news. Wine? Morning broth?"
"Thank ye, but-no. Ye still know how to tempt a man, lass."
Alusair Nacacia grinned. "I should hope so. Fall into a seat- there're plenty."
The princess was tangle-haired and barefoot, evidently just risen from slumber. She wore only a large, fluffy robe, but her sword gleamed ready in her hand. Its scabbard lay upon a round stone table beside her flagon of steaming broth. Elminster sniffed appreciatively then shook his head and sat down. His stomach promptly rumbled.
Alusair grinned again and ladled him his own flagon, as Calad-nei and Myrmeen took seats around the table.
"So talk, wizard," Alusair commanded. Caladnei and Myrmeen both stiffened in apprehension, but Elminster merely chuckled.
"By the first Mystra and the second, but ye sound like thy father, lass!" He stretched, leaned back, and added gruffly, "Ye truly don't want to know what Vangey's been up to, but as Regent ye'd best know anyway, so long as ye've the sense not to tell anyone."
Alusair rolled her eyes and growled in mock anger.
Elminster gave her a grin to match her earlier ones. "Well then, to put it plainly: My onetime pupil and thy former Mage Royal is trying to complete a magical task that's very important to him, ere he dies. Ye might say he's putting the last of his life into it and is fiercely set upon it."
"And this task would be-?" the Steel Regent growled.
"None of ye three need me to remind ye that the Lords Who Sleep bide in armed slumber to guard Cormyr no longer. Well, Vangey seeks to replace them."
Alusair's eyes blazed. "With whom?"
"Dragons. Thy retired Royal Magician seeks to bind some great wyrms in stasis to defend the kingdom of Cormyr against any other attacking dragon, or the whelming of a rebel host, or an invading army from, say, Sembia or from the Zhentarim or some other grasping power."
Shock shone white on three female faces.
"Without telling us?" Alusair barked.
At the same time Myrmeen burst out, "This could imperil the realm as gravely as did the Devil Dragon!"
Caladnei swore, "Mother Mystra!"
Elminster smiled gravely around the table and thrust out his hand to catch hold of Alusair's blade before she could smash it down on the stone table in rage. She struggled against his strength in vain for a trembling, throat-straining moment then sat back dumbfounded.
"Magic," he explained with a wry smile, handing her blade to her. The princess snarled and snatched it up, whirling it back to bring it shattering down on the stone-then stopped in midair, matched his smile bitterly, slid it into its sheath instead, and laid that on the table with deft and delicate care.
"So," she said, letting her breath out in a long sigh, "suppose, old meddling wizard, you tell us a little more about this idiocy-just so I know what to say when I go storming into Vangey's little hidden haven to tie his ears together under his chin and charge him with treason!"
Elminster's smile grew wider and more crooked. "Ah, the spirit that has carried Cormyr into the mess 'tis in today. Temper, lass, temper."
"Old Mage," Myrmeen put in calmly, "the Steel Regent is not the only one to be shocked, dismayed, upset, and furious. I believe I speak for both myself and Caladnei when I say that we, too, are on the verge of boiling over at this news. Pray grant the request of the Crown Princess: Tell us more."
Elminster nodded. "Excellent broth," he told Alusair brightly, earning another glowering growl.
He winked and said quietly, " 'Tis probably no news to inform thee that acting alone and in secrecy is the way of mages. Let me impart a reminder and a tutor's judgment. The former: Vang-erdahast serves the realm first and its rulers second. The latter: Thy retired Royal Magician learned long ago, to his cost, to trust no-one."
"To his cost? What cost?" Caladnei asked sharply.
"His broken heart, the lives of more than a dozen nobles, both loyal and rebel, and three abiding perils to the realm," Elminster replied. "Ask him if ye'd know mor
e-for I've more important •words for ye three."
"Oh?" the Crown Princess asked icily. "There's more?"
"Advice, lass, advice. A warning, if ye will. To reveal Vangey's plan to others-to anyone, even Filfaeril-will be to risk rumor of it getting out and endangering the realm by luring wizards hither."
Myrmeen wrinkled her brow. "Dragon collectors?"
"Those who seek the spells Vangerdahast is crafting-spells they can't help but see that he must craft, to find success-to bind and command dragons. Some will see deeper and know that Vangey draws on the last of his life to power such spells. They will see him weak, and dying soon-perhaps sooner, if they can catch him at work and unprepared for battle. Then the realm will be theirs to plunder of magic-his caches, at least-or try to rule, through alliances with the more traitorous nobles . . . and suchlike mischief all of ye should be more than familiar with."
The three women looked back at Elminster, shock and anger gone. Their faces now held frowns of thoughtfulness. After a moment, they all started to speak at once. Before any of them could form a single whole word, they fell abruptly silent again, gesturing at each other to speak first.
It was Caladnei who did so. "As Mage Royal," she said, lips thin with determination, "I must deal with this. Mine is the duty and the skill-however slight, when set against Lord Vangerdahast's- at magecraft. This doom is mine."
"I … you're right, Gala," Princess Alusair said reluctantly. "Though it feels like I'm sending you to your death."
"As it happens," Elminster said brightly, setting down his nearly empty flagon, "Mystra commanded me to deal with this. Knowing both thy duties and how ye'd feel about being left out, I came to collect and bring ye along-the Mother of All Magic being of like mind."
"Well, if you're collecting women to come watch you swat Vangerdahast," the High Lady of Arabel spoke up, "I insist on coming along too. I don't want to miss seeing Old Haughty get his-and someone besides magic-crazed wizards should be present, to witness fairly and to report back to the Crown."
Alusair nodded. "Well said, Mreen. Old Mage?"
Elminster smiled. "If Myrmeen Lhal desires to come along, then so she shall, in all the safety I can provide."
Abruptly, his seat was empty. He, Caladnei, and Myrmeen were simply gone from the room.
Crown Princess Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr gaped at their empty seats then sprang to her feet, snatching up her scabbarded sword, and snarled, "Elminster? Caladnei?"
There was no answer but faint birdsong from outside. The Steel Regent threw back her head and let her fury pour out in a wordless roar. No chance to privately confer with Cala or Mreen, no chance for them to prepare gear or make arrangements! The scheming old bastard!
She smashed the nearest door open and strode out into the forest, striding hard. Her scabbard whirled back in her wake, almost slapping handsome young Lord Malask Huntinghorn across the face. He blinked, came out of his doorguard's stance, and started after the Crown Princess.
Ducking around wildly waving branches and swaying saplings, he reached a dense thicket in time to see Alusair hiss out a stream of curses he was glad he couldn't quite catch and reduce a defenseless sapling to kindling with a few furious slashes of her sword.
Throwing back her head to shake the hair out of her eyes, she strode purposefully to the next sapling. Malask Huntinghorn swallowed, drew in a deep breath, and performed the bravest act of his young life, thus far … perhaps his last brave act ever.
"Princess," he said firmly, striding forward to catch at her swor-darm, "that tree deserves to live, just as you or I do. The living green heart of the realm, as Lord Alaphondar often reminds us, is its trees. I don't think you should-"
Princess Alusair spun around far more swiftly than she'd ever done when making love to him-faster than any battle-knight of the realm he'd ever seen-and pounced on the scion of House Huntinghorn, flinging her blade away to punch, kick, and claw.
Malask found himself on his back, winded and with a fierce pain in his shoulder where he'd fetched up against a tree-root-and even sharper pains erupting in his gut and ribs as the Regent of Cormyr slammed her fists home, snarling and shouting in fury.
He was suddenly very glad indeed that he'd donned full forest-leathers, codpiece in particular, to take his turn at guard-as knees and knife-edged hands thrust home, slaps made his ears ring and his face burn, and the woman he was sworn to defend thrust her nose almost into his eye and shouted, "Defend yourself, you great rothe, damn you! Fight, Malask!"
"M-my Queen, I-"
"I'm not your damn queen or anyone's queen, Lord Lummox! I'm a warrior who feels great need of a sparring partner, right now! Hit me, you great lump of cowering man-flesh!"
Malask swallowed, closed his eyes against a punch that almost closed one of them for him, and reluctantly thrust one arm up and out. She swatted it aside, bruisingly, and belted him across the nose.
"Aaargh!" he roared, eyes streaming as the pain stung him into trying to twist and roll out from under her. "Gods, you've probably broken it, Luse! I'll look like some sort of country straw-butt lout for the rest of my life!" He shielded his dripping nose with one hand, wincing and blinded by tears.
"Well, why not? You are a country straw-butt lout!"
With a roar, Malask Huntinghorn forgot all about duty, princesses, treason, royal persons, and how soft and ardent this particular royal person had felt on occasion-and lashed out with a roundhouse swing that had all of his pain and anger behind it.
There was a grunt, a sudden loss of weight atop his hip, and silence.
He blinked, swallowed, and knuckled his eyes feverishly to clear them. "Luse? Luse?"
"That's more like it," she snarled into his ear, as both of her fists struck home, low in his ribs, driving the wind right out of him. Groaning and flailing out, he punched, clawed, and punched again-and somehow found himself staggering to his feet, under a welter of blows, tearing a fluffy nightrobe clean off the Crown Princess of the realm as he spun her off-balance so as to plant a solid blow to her breast that sent her over backward to the ground, doubled up and spitting curses.
Glowering, he strode toward her, fists balled. She launched herself up and into his gut, headfirst, hurling him backward.
He greeted the ground with a crash, a snapping of ferns and dry dead branches, and a Crown Princess of the realm on his pelvis, punching at him. Malask got in an uppercut that snapped Alusair's jaw up and back, and she collapsed onto him with a groan, rocking back and forth.
"Oh, my jaw aches," she muttered, as she crawled up the body of her battered guard, both of them wincing at their bruises, and kissed him.
"Gods above, Luse," he whispered, "is this one more way of hurting me? My nose . . ."
"I'll help you forget your nose," she said huskily, finding and tugging at his laces. Malask Huntinghorn groaned and shook his head. Oh, Alusair. Ah, fortunate Cormyr . . . and lucky me, too.
Ten
SCHEMES AS BLOOD-RED AS RUBIES
Beware all schemes, O king, for such beasts have a way of shedding blood on the floors of this kingdom like poured-out sacks of rubies.
The character Malarvalo the Minstrel in Scene the Fourth of the play Daggers In All Her Gowns by Nesper Droun of Ordulin, first performed in the Year of the Morningstar
Rhauligan was barely out of the turret when Narnra cast a glance back over her shoulder and saw him.
She gave him a glare, ran on a few paces, stopped, peered off to the left where the balconies and turrets of Haelithtorntowers jutted closest to the wall-then took a few racing steps and launched herself between the leaf-cloaked boughs of the great trees of the mansion gardens, in a daring leap that . . .
. . . took her safely to a clinging landing on the head of a brooding gargoyle, chin in hand, holding up one corner of a balcony.
Rhauligan hoped it was rock-solid carved stone and not of one those stonelike monsters that would suddenly move to bite and claw-probably when she was safely gone, but he was trying to l
and in the same spot.
Keeping his eyes on her to make sure she set no traps behind, Rhauligan trotted along the wall, looking for the right place to make his running jump.
He sighed, once.
Caladnei and Narnra, I'm keeping a tally here. And if the gods grant me more luck than any man in the kingdom has enjoyed for the last century or so, I just might live to collect it.
Rhauligan took his last two running steps with the wind in his face and launched himself into the air. The balcony was enough lower than the top of the wall that he'd been able to clearly see through the windows of the room it opened into. No one was moving therein. He'd paced off the run calmly enough, and now he'd just have to hope he'd been . . .
. . . right. He landed hard, numbing his elbows on the lichen-splotched old gargoyle and losing a lot of breath-but his first surge of angry strength took him safely up and over the intricately carved stone rail onto a balcony that seemed far too spattered with bird dung to belong to a house that held caring servants. The Harper took but an instant to safely plant his feet ere he looked up.
The long legs and trim behind of Narnra Shalace were just vanishing through an open window, high above.
As Rhauligan leaned out to peer, she slipped inside the window, favored him with the briefest of glares, and closed it behind her. Through its dung-streaked, amber-tinted glass, the Harper saw her turn its catch, latching it firmly.
So. He could either climb the outside wall-and though he was the stronger of the two of them, he was also much the heavier-to break that window and force his way in or stand here on a nice level balcony and do the same to a window or door.
Out of habit Rhauligan ducked low and turned back to peer over the balcony rail. Its gargoyles were still gargoyles, and there was no sign of guards or anyone else in the mist-beaded shade-gloom of the lush garden below.
He spun again to the door, still in his crouch. Nothing moved in the room beyond the door-which was dark and seemed to hold a lot of large, draped things . . . furniture shrouded in dust-sheets. Rhauligan's eyes narrowed. Lady Ambrur was certainly still in Marsember-or had been, yester-morning-so this couldn't be the usual nobles' practice of shutting up one house and journeying to another . . . not that current local Harper wisdom knew of Lady Joysil Ambrur having any other abode. Of course, she could be invited to some Sembian hunting lodge or Cormyrean upcountry castle at any time, but. . .
