Swords of Dragonfire tkomd-2

by Ed Greenwood

  Torsard Spurbright’s lip curled. “Forgive me, Father, but our proud lineage is scarcely to be measured against an arbitary, some-occasions-only detail of Court etiquette!”

  “Oh? Are not our noble privileges matters of that same Court etiquette? The Crown can strip them away at a whim, can they not?”

  “Aye, the Crown,” Torsard said. “The king, not some jumped-up wizard!”

  “Well, that particular jumped-up wizard, daily and in truth, rules the realm more than king and queen put together, and happens to do so right now! So take hold of your temper, do off that blade, and choose one without enchantment!”

  “And what if some outlander or hired adventurer storms into the revel and menaces the fair Obarskyrs? What then?”

  “Then all the watching war wizards will hurl their spells at such menaces, and the sorceresses who pose as Lady Summerwood’s maids will do the same,” Lord Spurbright replied. “And if there just happens to be anything left of those menaces afterwards that half a realm’s worth of Purple Dragons seem to need aid carving up, your non-magical blade may prove useful!”

  “But-”

  “Now, are you a Filfaeril-favored Knight of Myth Drannor, or perhaps a murderous outlaw? Or a loyal noble of Cormyr, whom his father can be justly proud of? ”

  Torsard snorted, threw up his hands in exasperation, and turned on his heel to stalk out of his father’s study. Only to spin around again, frowning. “Look you, why before all the gods do we have to get dressed up and mingle with every commoner who can afford a bath and a decent tunic?”

  “We don’t. We can stay right here and take no part in this reception. I’ll not be surprised if the Bleths and Illances do just that; they oppose closer ties with Silverymoon.”

  “Huh. Want all the gold their ships can bring them, in ever-more trade with the Vilhon, don’t they?”

  “Precisely,” Lord Spurbright said. “Though I’d also not be surprised if the young Bleth and Illance men sidle in with masks on to enjoy the revelry, even if their fathers forbid them.”

  “Oh? A revel for an outlander envoy? Of some elf-loving, backwoods Sword Coast city that freezes every winter and river-floods every summer? Why? ”

  “Your vast knowledge of Silverymoon overwhelms me, son. As to your ‘why,’ well, they say the Lady Summerwood is almost as beautiful as High Lady Alustriel herself.”

  “Ah, yes, fair and fabled Alustriel,” Torsard said. “One of those silver-haired polearms of women who bed everyone within reach and claim to be the daughter of a goddess. If you reached through the spells they use to make themselves so beautiful, to actually touch them, I daresay your fingers would find near-skull faces and wrinkles and warts and all the other delights old hags have to offer.”

  “Oh? Think you so? Well, my all-knowing heir, my fingers have gone on that adventure you so sneeringly refer to-well before I took your mother to wife, I might add-and I found Alustriel to be very fair. Very fair, indeed.”

  Torsard stared at his father. Lord Elvarr Spurbright’s voice had gone both soft and rough, and his eyes were gazing at something far away and long ago. Eyes that seemed suspiciously bright-until Lord Spurbright turned his back on his son, and said gruffly, “Well? Just how long is it going to take you to fetch that blade? The revel’s today, look you!”

  “We seek the Dragondown Chambers,” Semoor said, shaking the battered-looking Purple Dragon by the throat, their noses almost touching. “Where are they?”

  “I’ll never tell!” the guard snarled. “Cormyr forever!”

  Semoor backhanded the man across the face, ringing the man’s helm against the stone wall behind him. Then the priest grinned and told his fellow Knights, “Hey, this is fun! I’ve years of being clouted by soldiers to make up for!”

  Florin turned away. “ Must we do this?”

  Islif laid a hand on his shoulder. “Easy,” she whispered. “I’ll not let it go on much longer.”

  “Now”-Semoor smiled into the guard’s face-“let’s try this again. The Dragondown Chambers: where are they? How do we reach them from here?”

  “I’ll not tell you, false priest!” the Dragon spat.

  Semoor’s punch had real force behind it this time, and his smile had vanished. “You insult Lathander more than you do me, man,” he snapped. “Now, are you-”

  Islif took hold of Semoor’s arm and hauled him to his feet, away from the guard-who promptly launched himself into a frantic run that lasted for only a single stride before Islif’s deftly outstretched leg sent him sprawling.

  Pennae landed on the Purple Dragon’s back, bounced hard, and drawled, “I wonder how he’ll look after a little slicing?”

  She let the man see the knife before she cut the rear strap of his codpiece, and was rewarded with a whimper and a frantic attempt to escape that ended, this time, with Florin hauling the man to his feet-and then off his feet and up against the wall, kicking helplessly with Florin’s hand around his throat.

  The ranger said to the guard, “We serve the Crown of Cormyr just as you do. The king himself signed our charter; the queen knighted us and gave us her blessing. We’re trying to save the realm right now. We need to get to the Dragondown Chambers, where as you well know there will be war wizards aplenty, who will promptly and firmly stop us if they judge us disloyal. We need directions. Please give them.”

  “Or I’ll continue,” Pennae added lightly, “with this.” Lifting the armored Purple Dragon codpiece aside, she pressed the point of her knife against the revealed leather beneath, just enough for the man to feel it.

  “I-uh-don’t let her! Ah-”

  “My arm,” Florin informed the guard, “is growing tired. There will soon come a time when I let you fall. And then-”

  Pennae swiftly moved the knife to press upward beneath bulging leather, where it could be felt. Its owner swallowed and then said in a rush, “Take the passage with the spyholes to the second way-moot! Turn left there, and go to the end. There’s a cross-way and two doors. Either one opens into a Dragondown Chamber!”

  “ Thank you,” Florin said gently. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you, saer.”

  “Go to sleep now,” Jhessail whispered, and cast the spell that would send the Purple Dragon into deep slumber.

  Florin lowered the man gently to the stone floor. “So, which passage is the one with the spyholes?”

  “This one,” Pennae said, starting off into the darkness. The rest of the Knights rushed after her.

  “So this is being a hero,” Doust muttered, as he started to pant again. “None of the minstrels ever sing about all the running! ”

  “How’d you know the right passage,” Semoor called to Pennae. “Or do you know the right passage?”

  Pennae gave him a grin back over her shoulder. “Of course. See those?” She pointed at a few tiny glows along the passage wall ahead.

  “Glowfire paint,” Islif murmured.

  “Aye. Marking little swivel-panels that can be swung aside to look through a spyhole; there must be a room on the other side of this wall that the war wizards or Highknights have occasion to watch folk in. The ladies’ baths, perhaps.”

  “I see,” Islif said. “And how is it that you recognize these spyholes at a glance, hmm?”

  As she ran on, Pennae started to hum an oh-so-innocent little tune by way of reply.

  Greenwood, Ed

  Swords of Dragonfire

  Chapter 19

  WHEN HUNGRY VULTURES GATHER

  And at the looked-for death of kings

  When hungry vultures gather

  Look you for the most reluctant to retire

  And you’ll see the proudest titles,

  The most gleaming gems

  And the brightest fangs.

  Anglym Warlar, One Bard’s Book published in the Year of the Firedrake

  The Calishite wizard yawned. “Merchant Haerrendar, never try to threaten me again. Or should I call you Bravran Merendil?”

  His host went as white as winte
r snow. “You know!” he gasped.

  “Of course. It is the business of Talan Yarl to know such things.” The wizard’s smile was jovial as he stroked his scented, immaculately trimmed beard, but his eyes were ice cold.

  “Moreover,” he added, “your threats are unnecessary. When Talan Yarl is bought, he stays bought. You have blundered; pray refrain from doing so again. You intend a little regicide at this revel, do you not?”

  The man Suzail knew as Ostagus Haerrendar, dealer in barrels, kegs, and pipes, stepped back, shuddering. It was some moments before he swallowed and said faintly, “It seems to be your business to know all things, no matter how secret or dangerous to know.”

  “It is more than my business; it is my life, or rather, the reason I still have one. Yet that does not mean I ever approach knowing all, merely that I like to know who I’m truly dealing with. Doing so, I find, saves excess spilled blood.”

  The Calishite looked down at the still form on the table between them. “This would be Rellond Blacksilver, known to many young noble ladies of your realm as ‘Rellond the Roughshod’ for his crude and impatient lovemaking. A rake and a wastrel I expected to see dead and buried long ago, with some angry noble father’s sword having relieved him of both his life and what fills his codpiece. Yet I see that he lives. Drugged or enspelled. This worthless braggart has something to do with your cunning plan?”

  “Drugged,” Merendil said stiffly. “And there’s no need to mock my cleverness-or lack of it. I’m paying you very well.”

  “That is true. Your gold should be sufficient to make me contentedly accept any idiocy you might offer, I’ll grant. Yet humor me, Merendil. Unfold to me your scheme. I really want to hear it. Truly.”

  “If your magic is sufficient to accomplish control of this man’s mind,” the nobleman said carefully, “Rellond Blacksilver will… do the deed. Stabbing the King of Cormyr during the dancing. Outraged, you will then reduce him to ashes-regrettably too late to save Azoun, but-”

  “I will do no such thing, idiot. If I am using a spell to control your dupe, the war wizards will detect it before he or I am anywhere near the king, and we shall both be imprisoned and later mind-reamed and executed.”

  “Ah, but you won’t be using a spell on Blacksilver!”

  “Oh? How, then?”

  “There’s a mindworm in his brain. You’ve heard of them?”

  “I have indeed.” Talan Yarl looked thoughtful. “I know of only one mage who uses them successfully-and he had to flee Halruaa and go into hiding in Turmish to keep his life, after word spread. Is this his work?”

  “I know not. The mage who did it-name unknown to us, but we believe he was an outlander-first placed a worm in a young noble lass, who in turn infected Blacksilver and some others. He has since disappeared. We believe Vangerdahast’s pet war wizards got him.”

  “So how did you learn of this worm?”

  “Though the mage-again, we believe-never knew it, he was being spied upon by War Wizard Sarmeir Landorl, who was working with me.”

  “A war wizard. So I am necessary how, exactly? Are you and Landorl seeking a scapegrace? A dupe to be blamed for your villainy?”

  “No! I need you to do this, because, well… Landorl’s disappeared.”

  “Vangerdahast’s war wizards again?”

  “We-we think so.”

  “ ‘We’? Who is this ‘we’? You and-?”

  Merendil reddened. “My mother.”

  “Your mother? Oh, brave conspirator, to make war on kings with your aged mother? What is she-fivescore years old, by now? A bedridden bag of bones, or a grave you stand over and murmur questions by night?”

  “I am not quite either of those things, yet,” a sharp voice said from just behind Talan Yarl’s ear. “Just as the poison on this dagger you’re feeling hasn’t entirely faded away either. Now, are you with us? Not that I’m sure how much of a choice you have, O Yarl who stays bought. I very much doubt that we can let you walk out of here, knowing what you now know.”

  Talan Yarl had stiffened at the first touch of the dagger point, eyes widening in utter astonishment. Nothing should have been able to approach him unawares, let alone pass through his shielding spell without him even noticing. He took great care not to move, though he wanted very much to see the Lady Merendil.

  “Why, great Lady,” he said now, the sudden sheen of sweat on his brow belying his smooth manner, “this puts quite a different complexion upon the matter. Consider me enthusiastically and steadfastly with you. Upon my honor.”

  “I’m utterly uninterested in your honor, mage. I want your blood-bond, sworn in a magefire pact. I want to know your blood will boil in your veins if you betray us. I find such mutual knowledge builds such stronger trust than honor.”

  Swallowing, Talan Yarl managed a shaky smile. “That it does.”

  Kahristra had been her personal maid these nine years, and to a lass who had seen little more than fourteen summers, that is a lifetime.

  Wherefore Princess Tanalasta regarded Kahristra as a friend and a confidant, not a servant to be ordered around-nor someone she needed to act the dignified, glacially expressionless royal heir in front of. Wherefore she now pouted openly, as Kahristra finished dusting her with powder, until Kahristra stepped back, put hands on hips, and asked, “Tana, what’s wrong? Why this mood?”

  The princess sighed. “I’m displeased that some stranger is sitting out there while I’m getting dressed. Can’t you send her away?”

  Kahristra shook her head. “I can’t give her orders. She gives me orders.”

  “What?” Tanalasta’s head snapped up, her brows drawing together in the frown that would always make her plainer than most women-and the very echo of her father the king.

  “Yon woman,” the maid explained, lifting a finger to indicate the door that led out of the robing room into the retiring room beyond, where they both knew the unwelcome guest was sitting, “is a war wizard, and she’s here on your royal father’s orders.”

  Tanalasta’s eyes widened in a mockery of incredulity. “So much I had guessed, but why? ”

  Kahristra sighed. “There are certain suspicions that you might be endangered at this revel, if you aren’t protected.”

  “You mean Vangerdahast is acting mysterious,” Tanalasta said disgustedly. “Again. He is the one who has suspicions.”

  “Well… yes,” her maid confirmed, trying-not entirely successfully-to hide a grin.

  “That man,” Tanalasta said, “is impossible! I wish someone would turn him into a frog, or a dragon would swallow him, or-or — something would happen to just take him out of all our lives!”

  Kahristra shrugged. “In unfolding time to come, you just might get your wish. You can’t say plenty of folk haven’t tried. One of them is bound to succeed, some day.”

  “You do realize,” the young man with the blazing yellow eyes said calmly, poised naked and magnificent above her, “that if we succeed in this, we must inevitably end up as foes.”

  “Oh?” The hands of the lady merchant of Marsember tightened on his hips. “Does your Cormyr so firmly embrace fair Marsember, then?”

  “As firmly as I’m embracing it now,” Terentane gasped, yielding to her hungry tugging.

  “Well, now,” she snarled under his riding, through clenched teeth, “I suppose we will, at that. Years hence, I hope.”

  “I hope so too,” Terentane panted-in the instant before the bed broke, beneath them, crashing to the floor.

  Which groaned ominously, and started to cant, oh-so-slowly tipping as a worm-gnawed post gave way. Together, laughing wildly, the young man so powerful in his Art that Vangerdahast feared him, and the wily merchant twice his age who’d built her wealth into a rival of the Crown treasury, dashed out of the doomed room and down the stairs.

  “ Must we use your rotting old boathouses for our trysts?” he protested, as they fell into each other’s arms again on a heap of old ropes at the bottom of the stairs, rats squealing and fleeing in al
l directions. Loud crashing through the wall beside them heralded the arrival of the shattered bed-piece by piece-onto the oar closet floor. Together they waited for the neatly racked oars, jarred loose, to topple… one, two, and then in a thunderous rush, many.

  Between giggles, Amarauna Telfalcon told her newfound lover, “I–I thought it would be more romantic!”

  He burst out laughing, and mirth conquered passion for a time.

  They were oddly matched: an energetic mageling, rejected when he tried to join the war wizards by a Royal Magician awed by the strength of his untrained mastery of the Art and mistrusting his loyalty-and a ruggedly attractive, ruthless merchant shipper, owner of twenty cogs and caravels, a dozen warehouses in Suzail, and twice that many here in Marsember, who harbored no dream more burning than the desire to see Marsember free of Cormyr again. A Marsember ruled by its merchants-hard-working master merchants like the Telfalcons, meeting in council-rather than by corrupt nobles or sneaking, spying wizards.

  When Terentane, the first man to look at her in a score of summers as anything more than a dupe to be fleeced or a rival to be shattered, reached for her again, Telfalcon playfully slapped his hands away.

  “ This is supposed to get me ready to play at being this Yassandra? So just what, exactly, do lady war wizards do all day?”

  “No, this was supposed to stop me getting nervous, and brooding over what could go wrong; remember?”

  Amarauna turned a wooden cross-latch to let a door in the wall fall open-and oars come spilling out in a wooden flood. “Is it working?” she asked innocently.