by Ed Greenwood
Elminster slowed. No horns were being sounded, which meant no fighting was still going on inside. Which meant, judging by the behavior of the Dragons, that there were plenty of bodies but no sign of any live and present murderers, flaming blue or otherwise.
Which in turn meant ‘twas time for this old sack of bones to hang back, stay in hiding, and listen.
“Alassra,” he muttered to himself as he sought the handiest alley, “forgive me. I love ye—but I love this realm, too. I can’t stop meddling in its affairs, trying to defend it against those who’d tear it asunder, guarding it against itself. I just can’t.”
The alley was well situated to watch the front doors of the Archer from, and even came furnished with a handy heap of discarded crates that the hired refuse-wagons hadn’t yet arrived to take away.
As he slid in behind them, relaxing against the rough and dirty wall with a satisfied sigh, one of his hands started to tremble all by itself, some of his fingers burning like they were afire, and others … going numb.
Elminster looked at it disgustedly. “This hand used to hurl down dragons and castles with equal ease.”
He stared at his fingers grimly. At least they still moved in obedience when he waggled them. Though two of them, it seemed, couldn’t curl up tightly anymore.
No more snatching things away from foes or keeping a tight grip on anything at all.
Stlarn it.
“This last century has not been kind,” he told the darkness quietly. “I’m getting too old for this now …”
His entire hand had gone numb.
“Oh, Mystra, that it has come to this …”
Arclath and Amarune looked up in startlement. A breathless Purple Dragon was staggering past them across the main room of the Dragonriders’ Club, gasping, “Swordcaptain? Swordcaptain Tannath?”
The patrol leader came out onto the stage from where he’d been examining the dancers’ dressing rooms. “Aye, Telsword?”
“Your patrol’s needed at the Bold Archer. There’ve been murders there, lots of them! Nobles, too!”
All over the club, Dragons started to move.
“Swordcaptain Dralkin sent me. Wants you there faster than possible, he said,” the telsword added with the last of his air, weaving to a chair to lean on it and gasp for breath.
Arclath and Amarune stared at each other across the table.
“You stay here,” the noble muttered, thrusting the decanter in Amarune’s direction.
By the orders Tannath was bellowing, he’d decided to leave none of his men at the Dragonriders’ and wanted “every last jack” of them out the door with him immediately.
“And I became your servant when, Lord Delcastle?” Amarune very quietly asked Arclath’s unhearing back as he rushed across the room to join the soldiers.
With a shrug of farewell to Tress and a swift swig that drained the last liquid fire out of the decanter, Amarune ran to the bar. Snatching up a cloak from the litter of unclaimed clothing from the fled and fallen that had been gathered there, she whirled it about her shoulders to cover her skimpy robe and ran out into the night, right on the heels of the noble and the slowest of the Dragons.
Tress watched her best dancer go, shaking her head. Then she turned back to survey the damage to her club. Again.
Sigh. Mustn’t let yon blood dry and the stain really set in …
Elminster sighed. Either this was a very slow night for Dragons walking patrol in Suzail, or the butchery inside yon club was truly impressive.
War wizards were still arriving—pairs and trios, each with a sword-jangling Purple Dragon escort—and hurrying into the Bold Archer.
From which the Dragons would soon emerge to stand talking with their bored, pebble-kicking soldiers who’d arrived earlier, and wait.
Presumably for the growing assembly of wizards inside to decide something or finish casting something—or fall asleep.
Gods, what did the callow young idiots who called themselves wizards of war do, these days? What could possibly be taking them so long?
Or were they all spewing their guts out in shock and disgust at the sight of so much carnage? By all the gods that still walked, weren’t jacks or lasses who joined the war wizards expecting much blood in their lives ahead?
If not, why not? Were they all utterly ignorant of the world they strode around in?
Elminster sourly abandoned asking silent questions that the alley around him couldn’t answer.
After all, who was he to demand answers about anything, an archmage who couldn’t control his own trembling fingers?
He’d have to go and see and hear for himself. Using yon alleyway refuse hatch, for instance.
He glided over to it, found it ajar, shook his head anew at the carelessness of Cormyr’s guardians, and listened hard.
About the length of his arm away from him, two swordcaptains had just begun to confer.
Swordcaptain Tannath was out of breath and none too happy. “Well, Dralkin? I got here as fast as I could; where’s the fire?”
“Out,” Dralkin said grimly, standing just inside the innermost door of the Bold Archer. All the lanterns had been lit and allowed to blaze up full; the room was bright, and every man could see the pool of blood that began at his boots and stretched away into a wrack of furniture and torn, draped bodies like a sticky crimson lake. “This would be what bards like to call ‘the bloody aftermath.’ Just before they start spewing up their suppers.”
Tannath was dispassionately scanning the severed limbs and hacked and staring faces. “I’d say more than a few noble families are going to be howling for vengeance come morning.”
“Aye, and our heads for not preventing it before it befell, when they can’t find anyone else handy to blame,” Dralkin agreed. “The spellhurlers have just cleared out to concoct something to head them all off. Not to mention to try to decide—though how a man decides such a thing, I wouldn’t know—if some plague of marauding madness has befallen Suzail this night.”
“Right, I’ll ask the obvious one,” Tannath asked heavily, his breath back. “Who did this?”
Dralkin shrugged. He caught sight of Arclath and Amarune’s pale and set faces at the rear of Tannath’s patrol, but went right ahead and said what he’d been going to say anyway.
“We’ve talked to two men who ran like stags before a forest fire and got away alive. They say two men who never stopped smiling, with blue flames that scorched nothing burning all over them all the time, did all this. They told everyone they were here to carve up Lord Seszgar Huntcrown—and did. His body’s missing, though Wizard of War Scorlound took away a finger he thinks was Huntcrown’s.”
“So these two flame-enchanted slayers hauled their prize carved meat back to whoever sent them, to prove they’d done the deed, and earned their fee,” Tannath said grimly.
“Of course. That’s not what’s riding me right now, though,” Dralkin replied. “Here’s why I want you upset and brooding, too: With all the nobles who want to get here camped in Suzail for this council, is this just the beginning? How many are these flaming murderers going to be sent to harvest, hey?”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
TO DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF BEING KING
Gaskur’s face was carefully expressionless as he admitted the three tardy nobles, but he led them up the back ways of Stormserpent Towers in almost undignified haste. On another occasion that might have earned him kicks and curses from the young Lords Windstag, Dawntard, and Sornstern, but not in the common mood that governed them just then.
Their hasty departure from the Dragonriders’ Club had been followed by a near-race to Staghaven House, the Windstag family mansion, to shelter in its garden summerhouse until the Dragons who’d skulked along behind them from the club gave up and turned back to report their whereabouts. Then the three had taken the tunnel under the street that led from Staghaven’s walled grounds to the Windstag-owned luxury stables, and from there down more than one back lane to reach Storms
erpent Towers.
The journey had taken more than time enough for their anger to cool into fear, self-cursing, and worry—not just of missing out on Stormserpent’s delicious schemes, but for stern consequences or at least annoyingly hampering war wizard suspicion ahead for themselves.
“There you are!” their host snapped as they came into the room in an untidy rush, Gaskur closing the doors behind them as he withdrew. “Too busy drinking to attend covert little meetings of treason on time?”
“Sorry, Marlin,” came a swift reply that left the room blinking in astonishment; none of the six nobles who heard it had harbored the slightest inkling Kathkote Dawntard even knew how to apologize—to anyone.
“Aye,” Broryn Windstag mumbled. “The family purse’ll be much lighter by highsun tomorrow, once the Dragons show up at Staghaven House.”
Sornstern was nodding; the three lordlings were the very picture of apologetic and chastened nobility.
Marlin Stormserpent sighed and turned from the board where he’d been filling himself a tallglass from his favorite decanter. “What happened?”
The explanation was an untidy collaborative affair that made the heir of House Stonestable snort loudly—and the other two nobles seated around Stormserpent’s table roll their eyes a time or two.
For his part, Stormserpent drained his glass at a gulp and had to refill it. When their mumblings died away, he barked, “None of you were so drunk or angry as to threaten retribution on the Dragons or Delcastle when you gained more power, did you? Did you?”
“No,” all three of the late arrivals replied with puzzled frowns, genuinely believing they hadn’t—and, luckily for them, therefore sounding convincing.
Marlin Stormserpent shook his head in exasperation and waved them toward his decanters. “Sit. Lack of self-governance—and tardiness—once court and palace are aware of us, will cost you your heads, so consider what you’ve just been through a warning to be remembered and heeded. Now, where were we?”
With Marlin still on his feet pacing excitedly, there were—or would be, once the tardy trio got their glasses filled—six nobles around the table, all young heirs of lesser Houses. That is, scions of families who had long been frustrated that larger clans, such as the royal Houses of Crownsilver and Truesilver, and perennially masterful wealthy schemers like the Illances, always crowded them out of all real power.
Most of the lesser nobility had quietly striven for centuries—against several handfuls of Obarskyr kings—to force the Dragon Throne to give them “their due.” Marlin’s conspirators, however, were largely drawn from newbloods, families ennobled after the exilings of House Bleth and the dispossessions of the Cormaerils and others.
Young and wealthy nobles can find sycophants and toadies in plenty, but friends among their fellow nobles are rarer to come by and harder to keep, among all the feuding, pride, and burning ambition. Nobles tend to cling fiercely to the few real friends they do make—and friendships had inevitably complicated Marlin’s choice of conspirators. Choosing a man he wanted might well bring along a second one he might not have ever chosen to trust with secrets that could cost noble necks.
Yet among the young heirs of Houses available in the realm, Marlin judged he’d done about as well as he could, if he wanted to retain any semblance of dominance at all in enterprises that could lead to swift graves if handled poorly. He had no stomach at all for recruiting stronger fellows who’d thrust him aside into the role of lackey—or scapegoat—once success was near.
They were all in their seats; Marlin sipped from his glass and studied them, his face once more a smoothly unreadable mask decorated by the faintest of smiles.
Windstag was a good blade and better hunter, but the sort of big, florid, blustering hothead that could all too easily land them all in disaster—and, there beside him, Sornstern was a nothing, Windstag’s toady. Dawntard, though sly and a drunkard, had swift and sharp wits and could steer Windstag where none of the rest of them could.
Dawntard could be trouble, though; trouble for Marlin himself. The sort who waited for weakness and then betrayed fellows to step forward and seize the spoils for himself. So were Handragon and Ormblade, for that matter; he must take great care to keep the three of them opposed to each other, not working together.
Irlin Stonestable was sour-faced and dour of outlook, one who’d endure and do what was needful and no more—but stand like stubborn stone for the cause, when others would slip away and run.
Mellast Ormblade he still could not read as much as he wanted to, nor had he means enough to blackmail. The man was the worst snob among them, but a saturnine, sophisticated, smooth-tongued diplomat, who just might deserve to look down his nose at almost everyone else in all the realm.
Marlin knew a bit more about Sacrast Handragon, whose family’s fortunes had fared perhaps the most poorly of them all—but what he knew made him firmly resolved to treat Handragon with wary respect. The man had the face of a statue when he wanted to, and iron self-control his every waking moment, it seemed. Swift and ruthless when that would benefit him, and a superb diplomat and actor all the time.
Aye, Ormblade and Handragon would bear watching. Hard and constantly too.
He smiled, raised his glass, and announced, “It’s time, friends, for me to impart some truths.”
By the gods, how he loved watching men stiffen in fear, waiting for his next words! This must be how it felt to be king.
Marlin waved a dismissive hand at the paling faces and stiffenings around the table, and let his smile broaden.
“Have no fears! This is not a moment of betrayal, I assure you. Rather, it is when I demonstrate my deepest trust in you by revealing my dearest secret: the very thing that made me dare to think a small, loyal-to-each-other band of true nobles could succeed in remaking—in rescuing—the land we all love. Before I reveal it, let me reassure you once again that no war wizard—not even the Mage Royal himself—can eavesdrop on us here. I have assembled magics they cannot hope to master or win past.”
He waited a moment, seeing by their burning stares that he had their interest, all right. No superior and sneering detachment rode any face around the table just then.
“I have a weapon in my keeping that legend trumpets often but very few folk suspect truly exists. One we can use to conquer Cormyr when the time is right. Friends—fellow conspirators—I have a hold over someone I will not name nor breathe any hint of where this someone is hidden. Someone whom spells protect me from revealing by coercion, spells that I can use to kill in torment any who seek to coerce me. Lords, I control … a long-imprisoned Obarskyr!”
A wordless, hastily stifled murmur—almost a gasp—arose. Then silence. The silence of men leaning forward eager to hear, excited and delighted.
“We must work out the details of my grand—and, yes, treasonous—scheme together, in meetings to follow this one. Yet here is its general outline. Agents I’ve been training—with, from time to time, your assistance—will deal with any courtiers who learn too much about us as we proceed. Our work shall be to eliminate living Obarskyrs—without betraying our own identities, and as much as possible delaying anyone seeing this goal of royal elimination—until we can present the one who’s under my hand as the sole remaining true Obarskyr!”
He fell silent to let them burst out with their questions.
“Coronation,” Stonestable murmured. “And then?”
Marlin gave them all a warm and friendly smile. “At my covert bidding, this new king will name me Lord Chancellor and Marshall Supreme of the Realm—and appoint all of you to the other major offices of the kingdom.”
“And then?” That was Handragon, his voice soft and almost lazy.
“And then,” Marlin purred, “Cormyr will be ours, and we can all settle all the scores we want to. I have my little list, and I’m sure all of you do, too. I expect much blood.”
The Sage of Shadowdale sank down into a crouch in the reeking alleyway, peered through the best of the many gaps in
the untidy heap of rotten crates between him and the crowd of Purple Dragons milling about in front of the Bold Archer, and listened hard.
Not so much to the Dragons, for he’d heard Dragons who knew little but were being grandly the-entire-realm-rests-on-my-proudly-uniformed-shoulders about it more than a time or two before.
No, he was intent on the two persons in the little throng who weren’t wearing Dragon uniforms: Lord Arclath Delcastle and the dancer who was with him, her cloak swirling open at every step and trying to take her robe with it. Amarune Whitewave, pride of the Dragonriders’ Club. His descendant.
Hopefully his successor.
She was keeping silent and staying at Delcastle’s side, as the young lordling asked questions of various Purple Dragons. He got some curt answers from the lowest-ranking, and a few “I know not” shrugs, but Dralkin’s telsword answered his query with a blunt, “Who are you two? And why are you here, instead of keeping back beyond our sentinels?”
Arclath smiled. “I,” he informed the Dragon officer loftily, “am Lord Delcastle, and I am charged by the war wizards to learn as much as I can about what’s happened here.”
The telsword regarded him expressionlessly for a moment and then raised his arm to point at the barely clad Amarune. “And her?”
“She,” Arclath replied grandly, sweeping an arm around his ill-cloaked companion, “is with me!”
“Just for the evening?” another Dragon asked cynically from behind them. Arclath whirled around to confront the man, but couldn’t tell which of the six or seven impassive veteran Dragons standing there had spoken.
He turned back to Amarune to say something supportive—and saw she was both pale and trembling with weariness. The excitement of the fray and seeing bloody death was wearing off or hitting home or whatever such things did. There was only one gallant thing to do.