Elminster - 08 - Elminster Enraged
Page 33
Storm was harping gently as she watched the swordplay, and there was a gentle smile on her face.
“I feel happier than I have in a long time,” she murmured. “What with Mystra restored, and Manshoon no more.”
“A Manshoon is not what he was,” El corrected her. “He survives, after a fashion, and there are more of him. Like many a wealthy merchant who trades in a large handful of lands, he has many Manshoons.”
Storm winced at the pun and lifted a hand from her harp strings to wave at the Harpers in the glade. “This is next, for me. And for you?”
“There remains,” Elminster said gravely, “the matter of Larloch.”
“I would have given much,” Lord Ambershields murmured, “to have seen this Storm Silverhand—Marchioness Immerdusk, indeed! What dusty old scroll did Foril pull that title out of, I wonder?—strolling to meet the king wearing nothing but her hair and a smile.”
“I’m sure you would, old ram,” Lady Harvendur replied tartly. “I, on the other hand, would have given rather more to see Vangerdahast schooling Glathra Barcantle. They say that Ganrahast and Vainrence asked to be tutored alongside her, just to quell the worst of the battles. Much good it did them. That’s how that fire got started in the haunted wing, you know!”
“Heh. I didn’t know, but must confess I’m not surprised in the slightest. There’s been more confounded tumult around here since we first started hearing all these rumors about Elminster the Deathless. Why, they say he’s built an altar to Mystra in the haunted wing, and is making every last wizard of war in all the kingdom kneel at it and pray to her every night! Whatever next?”
“Good government?” Lady Harvendur joked.
Lord Ambershields rolled his eyes. “Huh! Now you’re dreaming aloud! We’ll have dread Larloch out of the depths of time to chair a Council of Dragons, before we see that!”
The lass had an eye, to be sure. When she was finished bending builders to her will, they would have a home that was both beautiful and practical.
Mirt stood on the threshold of the western front door, waiting for his partner of the evening to adjust her gown just so, daub scent here and there, and all the rest of it. Looking out over the cobbled and garden-planted forecourt, he smiled happily. Aye, all in all, the mansion he and Rensharra shared was delightful.
So was having, at long last, a lass who understood his needs, just as he understood hers. Free to both take anyone as a partner for an evening or three, or even a tenday, but contentedly returning to each other’s arms, again and again.
“I believe I’m ready, Lord of Waterdeep,” a husky voice murmured from behind him, a moment before a strong and shapely arm slipped through his.
Mirt turned his head to give Glathra Barcantle a fond smile. “Ah, but you look beautiful, wench. Let’s stroll out and dine.”
“Wench?” Her tone held warning. “Is that a Waterdhavian endearment?”
“It was back when I flourished, girl,” Mirt told her gruffly. “Oh, what now? Is ‘girl’ somehow demeaning now, too? Gods, lass, the way yer dressed, yer sure telling the watching world yer a girl!”
“Your girl, this evening,” Glathra agreed happily, as they strolled out into the forecourt.
Only to see Rensharra Ironstave, in an even more magnificent gown that left one shoulder crested and the other bare, departing the eastern front door on the arm of her gallant for the evening. King’s Lord Lothan Durncaskyn looked decidedly dapper in tailored black, with one of the fashionable new tailcloaks swirling at his every stride.
Mirt went right to Rensharra, and they let go of their respective partners for long enough to embrace, kiss, and wish each other a delightful evening.
“Don’t forget the way home, now,” Mirt warned. “I’ve slaked a haunch in wine, for us to share at dawn.”
Rensharra smiled, then purred, “And I’ve a surprise for us to share, too.”
Mirt growled suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows.
She chuckled. “No, not that, but let me assure you that it’s not a new tax assessment, either.”
Mirt bowed deeply. “Until dawn, then.”
She bowed right back, almost spilling out of her low-cut gown in the process. “Until dawn.”
They all went on their ways smiling, thinking of that bright dawn ahead.
HERE ENDS THE THIRD BOOK OF THE SAGE OF SHADOWDALE
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