by Ed Greenwood
There. Ready. He glowered at his nearest mirror ere turning and hastening down to the forehall to meet with the Dragons.
When he came down the stair, they were standing in a grim, silent little group, waiting for him.
“Well?” Marlin asked shortly, sparing no breath on greetings or even a pretense of politeness.
“We have need of your aid, Lord Stormserpent. Please come with us. Just as far as your front doors, yonder.”
“Why?” Marlin snapped. “What’s—?”
They said nothing, turning in unison to tramp to his doors.
Marlin glared sidelong at his silent servants then followed the Dragons.
One front door of the Towers was ajar, and there were more soldiers outside.
“So what’s all this about?” Marlin asked, stepping aside to avoid being caught in the doorway with Dragons all around him.
“We need you to identify this dead man,” a telsword told him gravely. “We’ve been told he’s a servant of yours. Truth?”
By then, Marlin was gaping down at the corpse on the litter, and his face was heading for the same dead-white hue that the body sported. It was Gaskur, the man he most trusted in all the world. His personal servant for years, his trade agent … a huge sword cut that left his throat gaping open told anyone with eyes how he’d died.
“Who … who did this?” Marlin blurted, his own throat closing around sudden tears, the room seeming to silently rock around him.
A firm hand at his back steadied him, and he was vaguely aware that the soldiers who’d been watching his face with intent and suspicious frowns were relaxing, some of them looking almost pitying.
“Where did you find him?” Marlin asked, his voice quavering like that of any young lass. Hearing no reply, he shook his head fiercely and turned away.
“That is my servant, yes,” he told the air blindly as he headed for the distant board across the forehall and its gleaming array of decanters. “Gaskur by name, a man true and loyal. I trusted him more than anyone.”
He found the decanters and turned. “Will you join me in a toast to a good man? And for the love of all the gods, tell me how he died!”
“Does the word or name ‘Talane’ mean anything to you, Lord?” The telsword’s voice was near and low down, as if the Dragon was half-kneeling so he could see Marlin’s face.
Marlin opened both eyes and told him fiercely, “No. Gods, no. Never heard it before now. Who or what is Talane?”
“We’d like to know that ourselves, Lord. It was written on the roof of a many-tenants house not far south and west of here, in your man’s blood. His throat was slit, as you can see, and his body hurled down from that roof into a midyard. Can you tell us why he may have been there, Lord Stormserpent? Was he out and about in the city on your bidding?”
Marlin shook his head, pouring himself a drink with hands that trembled. “He lived here in this house, and so far as I know had no kin nor friends—nor property, for that matter—in Suzail. I know little of his habits and doings when on his own time, but mark you: Gaskur was trusted, and his time off was his own, to forge and further his own life, not dance always in Stormserpent livery.”
“Thank you for your assistance and for your offer,” the telsword said gravely, “but we’re in some haste, now. We’ll leave you to your private grief and take the remains of your man with us; the wizards of war will want to examine it.”
“Good,” Marlin said bitterly. “You do that. And come back and tell me what they find, for if the Crown does not find someone and make them pay for this—this foul murder, loyal swords of the realm, hear me well: I will.”
“Lord Stormserpent, we hear and will do so. Your sentiments do him honor, and yourself as well.”
And with that, the Dragons were gone in a hasty thunder of boots, leaving a shaken Marlin Stormserpent to sip liquid fire and listen to the doors of his home boom shut.
After he’d downed a flagon, refilled it, and emptied it again, one of the House servants murmured at his elbow, “Lord? Will you be wanting any—”
“Leave me be,” Marlin said curtly. “I would prefer to be alone. Let no one follow where I go.”
He filled the flagon once more and drained it in a single quaff that left him gasping. Slamming it down on the board, he said curtly, “Wash that,” and turned away to stride blindly across the forehall toward the grand stair.
“Talane” was a mystery, perhaps a mere fancy to send the watch astray. Gaskur had almost certainly died under the treachery of one of his fellow conspirators; the most recent task of importance he’d given Gaskur was to spy on their doings and meetings for any sign of possible betrayal.
“Nobles,” he hissed furiously, quoting a jest that usually left him wildfire-leaping hot. “Can’t trust them even as far as you can hurl their severed heads.”
By then, he was up the stair and through a door and waving sleepy servants back to their beds. A few more halls and doors, a few more locks and bars seen to, and he would be alone, all servants kept well away from him.
Back in his own rooms, he scooped Thirsty back out of his jerkin and set the stirge on a perch; Thirsty hated the magic that was about to be awakened and always demonstrated that by defecating copiously and digging claws in deep, too. Drawing and downing a hasty glass of wine from his favorite decanter, Marlin set aside the chalice and the Flying Blade, too, caught up his bedside lantern, and headed for the uppermost room of the most ruinous tower.
Dust still lay thick over much of it, in the lantern glow. From the cloak stand he retrieved the milky glass orb, took it to the small round table, and set it atop the heavy metal goblet standing there.
Settling himself into the lopsided chair, Marlin touched the orb, murmured the word, and watched the familiar glowing cloud appear. As swiftly as if Lothrae had been waiting for him—a thought that made his eyes narrow in suspicion, for just a moment—the cloud became the image of the masked man sitting in the falcon-back chair in front of his own orb.
“Yes?” Lothrae greeted him simply.
“Master,” Marlin Stormserpent began fearfully, and related Gaskur’s fate and his own fears of treachery, ending with, “What should I do?”
“Stop acting weak and fearful,” came the cold reply. “Stop looking over your shoulder for treachery, and attracting the suspicions of every last Purple Dragon or war wizard who may set eyes on you. Carry on as boldly and insolently as if nothing at all has happened. The way you were conducting yourself before.”
Lothrae leaned forward to speak loudly and firmly. “If there’s a traitor in your conspiracy, this is your best armor; he has struck against you, and behold, you are so strong that you simply ignore the blow.”
The masked man spread his hands. “You can live looking behind you at every shadow, fear strangling you—but that’s hardly a life worth living, is it? Continue with our plan, and the throne can one day be yours. Waver, and it shall never be. Break, and it’s your life you’ll be frantically seeking to cling to, not dreams of kingship. But none of this should be new to you; you should already be well aware of the choices before you and the risks woven around each of them.”
“Yes, yes,” Marlin agreed hastily. “Yes, I’ll do that—uh, those things.”
Nodding, Lothrae was abruptly gone, leaving nothing but dark and empty air above Marlin’s orb.
Cursing softly, the heir of House Stormserpent restored things to their rightful places, took up his lantern, and hastened back to his own chambers.
Lothrae had spoken of the best tactic, but those bold words did nothing at all to lessen the danger. Someone who’d sat around his table plotting treason—or even a cabal of several of them, grinning at him behind their masklike faces—wanted him dead.
Taking to his bed was easy enough, but finding slumber proved harder. Fear was in him, his mind whispering peril after betrayal after knife in the dark.
Marlin tossed and turned, hissing curses through cold sweat after drenching cold sweat, fear never le
aving him. He was so agitated that Thirsty took to flitting back and forth across the bedchamber, flapping from post to post of Marlin’s great four-poster bed.
It was no use. He could not sleep. Not when there could be a dozen hired slayers prowling Stormserpent Towers at that moment, blades in hand and gentle smiles on faces, drawing nearer … and nearer …
“Farruking Hells,” he snarled, thrusting himself up from the bedclothes in a fresh fury.
He staggered as his bare feet hit the floor, but yawningly steadied himself against the nearest bedpost, then made for the chalice and the Flying Blade.
When Langral and Halonter of the Nine were standing coldly facing him once more, blue flames raging endlessly about them, Marlin commanded the two ghosts to watch over him as he slept and guard his person from all intruders.
Thirsty the stirge hastily flew from the bedpost up to the loftiest corner of his highest window to perch well out of their reach.
Langral and Halonter nodded silently at those orders. Silently flaming, they took up positions over Marlin as he settled himself on his pillow once more.
He’d feared he might not be able to sleep with the blueflame ghosts looming so close and menacing, but before he could so much as fully remember that fear, dark and falling oblivion claimed him.
And so never saw the thief and the fighter of the Nine, standing there in their flames, turn to regard each other over Marlin’s faintly snoring form—and then in unison look down at him, open contempt on their faces.
“Saving the world or not,” Amarune mumbled, finding her nose perilously close to the tabletop for about the tenth time, “I can’t stop yawning.”
“Of course, lass. Ye need rest. We’ll talk more on this later.”
Elminster produced a pouch from somewhere under his robes, and from it poured a generous stream of coins into his empty tallglass in the center of the table.
Then he rose and offered Amarune his arm. She was very thoughtful but also stumbling weary, and almost fell as she found her feet and took that proferred arm.
“Where—?”
“I’m escorting ye back to thy rooms, where I’ll part from thee and let ye enjoy a good long sleep. As long as ye need, mind; I’ll settle things with thine employer so ye’ll not be greeted by swords when ye come next to dance. The Dragonriders’ should be reminded that drunken wizards can and do accuse any innocent lass of being almost anyone. I’ll play a sober wizard who knows better.”
Amarune nodded and let the old man lead her out through the deserted halls of The Willing Smile. Not the way they’d come in, she noticed; some discreet side exit, then.
So it proved to be, when Elminster ducked behind a narrow ascending stair, pushed on a panel, and they were in the outside air.
And almost falling over someone who was leaving the same establishment by another door that faced their own—a hasty departure of a robed man who was bent over as he scuttled forward, still fastening his clothing.
The collision was a mild one but parted Amarune and El and left them hopping for balance. They turned in unison—and found themselves looking into the glare of Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake.
Who flushed a deep crimson and started to stride forward, snapping threats and orders at “Two miscreants who should both be in our dungeons, before—”
Elminster turned his head in the teeth of this tirade and quietly asked Amarune, “Trip him for me, will ye, lass?”
Unhesitatingly she obeyed, toppling the war wizard abruptly on his face onto the cobbles, sprawled and senseless.
After staring down at the unconscious Mreldrake in sleepy astonishment for a moment, Amarune shook her head as if to clear away bewilderment and gave Elminster an almost accusative look.
“You … did you use a spell on me?”
“No,” Elminster told her truthfully. “Nor did ye obey me because I gave an order. Ye just did the right thing when I pointed it out to ye. We of the blood of Aumar can’t help ourselves, lass. Doing the right thing is what we do.”
He patted her arm. “Oh, the Realms will be fine in thy hands. Just fine.”
Those words left Amarune standing white-faced and slack-jawed in the street as she stared at him, at a complete loss for words.
Gently he took her arm again and started towing her home.
CHAPTER
THIRTY
YOUR CASTLE OR MINE
Amarune awakened in darkness, lying amid her bedclothes. They were twisted and clammy, as if she’d spent the day wrestling with them rather than sleeping. She blinked up at the ceiling.
Gods, she felt exhausted. Ruthgul was dead, dead … and she might well be, too, the moment Talane or that Windstag noble or his bullyblades found her.
She dare not stay there.
But where could she go?
What should she do? Not just for the moment, but with her life?
She was a very public target at the Dragonriders’ … but she’d need coins coming in, to live anywhere.
Redoubling her career as the Silent Shadow only under a new name might be very profitable at that time, with Suzail full of wealthy nobles, but was stone-cold sure to be one thing. Very dangerous.
Even if there were no laws nor wizards or Purple Dragons to enforce them, and even if nobles were all careless-of-coin idiots with blunt swords who lacked House wizards or hired bodyguards, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to make her living by thievery anymore.
And what did the crazy old mage who thought she was his granddaughter want with her? To “save the Realms,” yes, but what did that mean? And just what would he put her through next?
Arclath’s face swam into her head … and suddenly, in a rush that took her breath away, Amarune found herself missing his company very much.
She wanted to hear that laugh of his again, his airy gestures and all the nonsense he drawled. She … stlarn it, she wanted to be at his side again. Where she felt, well, not safe, but confident. Or rather, wrapped in his confidence, as if it could carry them through any danger or difficulty or unpleasantness.
Huh. And what pit of vipers would that be, trailing along with drawling, pranksome, idiotic Lord Delcastle?
She shook her head and gave the dimly seen ceiling a wry shrug. No matter. It seemed to be what her sleeping self had decided she wanted to do.
Her next shrug took her out of bed in a long-limbed wriggle. Stalking to her row of cloak hooks for some clean clothing, she found herself wondering if Lord Arclath Delcastle would be at Delcastle Manor at that hour.
Or if, regardless of what time of day or night she appeared at its gates, the Delcastle servants would let her in—or just sneer and slam those grand doors in her face.
Drawing a clean clout up her legs, she frowned at that. Mustn’t let new vipers into their cozy little pit …
She smiled wryly and started thinking up grand tales of secret messages from the palace she’d be bringing him. She’d be … a highknight. Yes, she’d have to be.
“The words I bear are for the ears of Lord Arclath Argustagus Delcastle alone,” she murmured to her mirror, keeping her face as calm as stone. “They are … royal words.”
That sounded good. Almost good enough to get her in.
She grimaced and reached up to fetch the knives she strapped all over herself when being the Silent Shadow.
She had a gods-strong feeling she would be needing them.
“Behold,” Elminster muttered to himself, “in what minstrels are pleased to call ‘the dead of night,’ one Elminster of Shadowdale returns to his chosen abode and battlefield, by one of the few ways he feels able enough to use about now.”
The night-lass he’d just enriched by two golden lions glided to a graceful stop in front of the two duty guards, smiled as she calmly pulled open her bodice, and announced, “Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake has just lost a bet, and by way of forfeit, has paid me well to entertain you two loyal Dragons.”
“Stand back, lass,” the older guard replied sternly, peering warily p
ast her into the night. “We’re under strict orders to let no one pass, not stray from our posts, and keep all who have weapons a safe reach away from us.”
The night-lass stepped back meekly and undid her gown.
“These are the only weapons I have,” she told them slyly, gesturing down at herself.
The younger guard growled wordlessly, stepped away from the door they were guarding, and reached for her.
“I’ll stand watch,” his older comrade growled quickly. “Be quick.”
His resolve lasted long enough for Elminster to begin to think his coins hadn’t bought him passage after all, but the night-lass knew her work. One of her hands had been beckoning the older Dragon all the while, until eventually he growled and strode eagerly forward.
Wherefore Elminster stepped away from the bit of the wall he’d been pretending to be a part of for a very long time, and slipped through the door unnoticed, without a sound or any undue haste.
By the time the younger guard decided it would be prudent to at least look up from the lass—whose name he very much desired to know, for future occasions—and peer around to make sure the street was empty of a patrol or a noble’s coach or two or perhaps a small approaching army, Elminster was several secret passages deep into the palace and descending some old, damp, seldom-used stairs.
He had magic to plunder, a hiding place to find, and a kingdom to save. In short, the usual …
Amarune drew in a deep breath, pulled her cloak more snugly around her—the moon was up, but the night had turned cold—and firmly clacked the knocker of the porter’s door beside the gates of Delcastle Manor. Slowly and deliberately, thrice.
Almost immediately, she heard a soft, sliding sound, as if a plate on the other side of the door had been slid aside to let someone peer at her. In the shadowed gloom, she couldn’t see any change in the door, but someone was there, watching and listening. There was movement behind the high, many-barred gates, too; guards, no doubt, taking up and aiming ready crossbows.