by Ed Greenwood
“Save it. You don’t want my old and unlovely bones in your bed anyhail,” the war wizard interrupted curtly and turned away.
Delcastle gave the messenger an almost comical look of injured innocence, shrugged, and announced grandly, “Come! We have a kingdom to save!”
He scooped a handful of gold coins from his purse and flung them on the table, turned with a swirl of his cloak, and strode for the door, the messenger on his heels.
Glathra watched them go. When they were quite gone, she allowed herself a loud sigh.
“Nobles,” she snorted. “Unruly children, every last one of them.”
She eyed the gold coins on the table. Surely he’d left enough to pay handsomely for a dozen such meals, or more.
And this one would all go to waste …
Her eyes fell on the nearest platter, just as a delicious smell of spicy, juicy, hot sausages wafted up to her.
Her stomach rumbled.
Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out.
That sausage proved to be every bit as good as it smelled, and in two ravenous bites was gone.
There were more.
Gods above, when had she last eaten?
As the serving maids drifted back into view, eyeing her doubtfully, the war wizard firmly sat down in Arclath’s still-warm chair and helped herself to the main platter.
Those sausages still beckoned, but she hadn’t had eels done properly for an age. They disdained sardragon sauce as “Marsembian glop” in the palace kitchens.
Uhmmm. They didn’t in the Eel’s kitchen.
The messenger’s name was Delnor, and he looked guilty as they sat down at Arclath’s usual table in the Dragonriders’, hesitantly darting uncertain glances this way and that.
The stages were empty, and there was no sign of even one alluring dancer, masked or otherwise. Nor anyone leering, cheering, or tossing coins. Of early morning hours, the Dragonriders’ Club offered members and their guests only tankards of strong broth and baths in scented water.
Aside from Delnor and the noble lord across from him, who was smilingly signaling that tankards be brought to them, the only patrons were a handful of drunkards and the wealthy and truly lazy, relaxing as servants—some their own and some provided by the club, but looking nothing like the sort of beautiful lasses who might at some other hour preen and pose unclad on a stage for anyone—bathed and shaved them. Delnor also saw washing, styling, and cutting of hair, and even some cleaning and mending of clothing and boots.
“So,” Arclath asked airily, “is the Lady Glathra always that much of a dragon? Or was she fond of Belnar? Or Halance?”
Delnor flinched as if he’d been slapped, flushed, then mumbled, “N-no. I think not, anyway. No. There were other … violent deaths in the palace last night. Uh, rumors abound that, ah, nobles were involved. And the ghosts that haunt the palace. Oh, and they’re saying the Silent Shadow is going to steal things, and old dead wizards—like Vangerdahast—may have been roused to walk the palace and make trouble by someone with an old grudge against Cormyr.”
“ ‘Someone’?”
“Uh, Elminster the Doomed, some are saying. Or crazy old Sembian lords on their deathbeds. You know … someone.” Delnor waved a hand dismissively then dared to really look for the first time into the eyes of the noble lord sitting with him. “Just talk. You … you care about any of this?”
“I know not what your general opinion of the nobility is, friend Delnor,” Arclath Delcastle replied, “but I assure you I am indeed interested in who killed my friends.”
One of his hands went to the hilt of his sword. “Very interested.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
SOMETHING OF AN UPROAR
The broth was good. Not to mention hot enough to burn tongues.
As the two men sipped cautiously from their tankards, Arclath’s firm demands of the serving maids were reluctantly obeyed; the owner of the club was summoned from her bed somewhere in the labyrinthine loft overhead.
Eyes hooded from the clinging edge of sleep, barefoot and clad in a very old and well-worn robe that looked as if it had once been someone’s rather magnificent carpet, Tress looked somewhat different than the vision in dark and clinging leather Arclath was used to.
She gave him a rather unfriendly look, yawned, and asked pointedly, “You required my servile presence, Lord?”
Delnor buried his face behind his tankard, trying to look as if he weren’t there. Arclath gravely tendered his apologies for rousing Tress at such an hour and asked her the name of the dancer who’d performed for him the previous evening, and if it would be possible to speak with her. Immediately.
“No,” Tress said simply. “She’s not here.”
“And her name would be—?”
“The Mysterious Dancer You Seek,” Tress announced flatly. “She’ll be performing on yon stage again at dusk tonight and thereafter until near dawn, unless trade’s too paltry to make it worth her pay.” She yawned again.
Arclath dipped into another purse—Delnor blinked; just how many did the man have, anyway?—scooped out a heaping handful of gold coins, and held it up. “Her real name?” he asked quietly.
Tress frowned and shook her head. “I won’t give, Lord Delcastle. I’m sorry, but unless you have a Crown warrant or someone I know to be a senior war wizard asking that for you, you won’t learn it from me. I must protect my girls.”
“So must we,” Arclath murmured, waving a hand to indicate he and Delnor were a team.
Tress snorted. “Against getting cold from being all alone when they’re bare in their beds?”
She turned away, adding over her shoulder, “Come back at dusk and ask her yourself. You’ll need all those coins and more, if I know her. Her company can be had at competitive rates, but her name she guards—and why shouldn’t she?”
Arclath and Delnor exchanged glances, shook their heads at each other soberly, then looked up at Tress and tendered their thanks.
She merely nodded, looking as if she was sliding right back into sleep again, while still on her feet. They rose, bowed to her, took a last swig of broth each, and made for the door.
Tress roused herself. “Your coins, Lord!” she said sharply, pointing at the pile on the table.
Arclath gave her a smile and a wave. “Consider them a donation for your hospitality, and some fumbling reparation for so clumsily attempting to bribe you,” he said lightly, and he departed the club, Delnor smiling apologetically in his wake.
Tress watched the door close behind them and shook her head. “Now just what was all that about?” she asked softly. “Stlarn it.”
“Nobles are crazy,” the maid who’d awakened her offered helpfully.
Tress sighed. “So they are, Leece. So they are.” She padded back toward the loft stairs. “Yet they always have been—and they don’t all come to my club with callow young palace messengers every morn, asking after my best dancer.” She sighed again. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
The magic faded at last, leaving the long-bearded wizard and the curvaceous silver-haired woman free to curse heartily.
They did so with enthusiasm, though Elminster spat out his words at a trot.
“We’ve lost the night and some of the morning,” Storm added, lengthening her stride to keep up with him.
“I know that, stormy one,” El snarled. “I also know just how careless I was to fall afoul of a dolt-simple war wizards’ trap, so ye can refrain from commenting on that, too!”
“Hmm. Someone’s very touchy this morning,” Storm told the ceiling.
Elminster made a rude sound popular with small boys, turned a corner, and started along the corridor even faster.
“What if she turns willful and impatient?” Elminster asked suddenly, as they rushed along the damp and dark passage together. He shook his head. “She could do so much damage …”
Storm snorted. “And we, down the years, have not?”
“Ye know what I mean, lass. Goes wrong,
like Sammaster and—well, too many others. The Realms could be in real trouble.”
Storm put a hand on Elminster’s shoulder. His muscles were as tight as drawn bowstrings. “Then we’ll have to destroy her,” she said softly. “As we’ve had to destroy bright weapons we forged before. The needs of the Realms demand, and we must meet those needs.”
“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 armed 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.”