by Ed Greenwood
“No axes,” one reported.
“Nor snares,” said another.
“I give you my word,” Storm told the oldest forester, “that we have no intention of hunting, woodcutting, or setting fires outside this firepit. We are traveling, no more and no less. We are not fugitives from justice.”
The oldest forester nodded. “I believe you. Yet one matter remains that I find most curious of all: Lord Delcastle, why aren’t you at the Council?”
Arclath opened his mouth slowly, not knowing what to say—and heard Storm reply smoothly, “The elder Lord Delcastle is attending Council, as head of House Delcastle. He instructed his son here to take the two of us”—her arm tightened around Amarune’s shoulders—“well away from the roving eyes of, ah, certain nobles to avoid any unpleasantness arising. Due to past entanglements.”
Several foresters nodded, and something that might have been the beginnings of a grin rose onto the oldest forester’s face—until his head snapped around, just an instant after Storm turned hers.
Then everyone heard it: the faint, irregular thunder of hooves from the north. Many horses, ridden hard.
Conversation and confrontation forgotten, everyone hastened to the road.
They reached the near ditch beside the Way of the Dragon in time to see many coach lamps bobbing in the distance. This was unheard of in deep night, when coaches so often overturned or slid off roads. All the foresters readied bows, except the oldest, who flung out both arms to bar anyone from stepping up onto the road.
What came sweeping down on them was a contingent of two dozen riders or more, galloping south as fast as their snorting, half-frightened horses could take them.
Purple Dragons in full armor—though lacking the banners and spears of a formal ride—swept past, three abreast and filling the road, hard-eyed and intent.
Then the watchers in the ditch caught sight of wizards bouncing uncomfortably on saddles in the midst of the soldiers. Wizards of war, being escorted south at speed, almost certainly traveling from Arabel to Suzail.
They could see the rear of the hurrying force, or thought they could. There were no coaches or wagons; the lights they’d taken for coach lamps were torches on poles, guttering wildly in glass spark shields. This was truly out of character. Such contrivances were used only in slow, stately wedding and funeral processions. What was going on?
Arclath and Storm were frowning openly in concern, and the oldest forester had seen enough. He scrambled up the bank with astonishing speed for a man of his years, flung up his arms, and cried, “What news?”
Horses shied and reared, riders cursed and fought with reins to keep their seats and lessen the inevitable collisions, and one of the wizards promptly fell off.
Some of the rearguard Dragons slowed their mounts and made for the forester, drawing their swords—as all the rest thundered on past, heading south and leaving only road dust and the fading din of their passage behind.
“Who are you?” a Dragon officer demanded, drawing a blade that shone with light, and pointing it so its glowing beam played across the foresters and Storm, Arclath, and Amarune. Seeing all the ready bows, he cursed under his breath and barked, “King’s men?”
“Of course,” the head forester replied gruffly, bending to help the groaning wizard to his feet. A Dragon had caught the riderless horse a little ways along the road and was calming the snorting, stamping gelding to bring it back.
“Got any fresh horses we can have?” the Dragon constal asked, not too hopefully.
The oldest forester shook his head. “No, I walk my patrols. As for yours—where to, in such haste?”
The wincing and bruised wizard under his hands growled grimly, “The Council down in Suzail has been disrupted; there’s uproar in the city, and some are saying it even looks like war, and—”
Arclath turned to Storm, towing Amarune like a startled pet. “I must return there. Take Rune to Eveningstar; there’s a barrelwright there who owes the Delcastles a lot of coin. Keep her safe until I retur—”
“Oh, no,” Storm and Amarune both snapped back at him, in unintended unison. “We’re coming with you!”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
UNTIDY ARRIVALS
In front of Burrath, his master stopped and peered up past the gate of watchful stone lion head, to the tiers of lit, many-paned windows rising into the night above.
“This is our destination?” he asked quietly.
The guide Glarvreth had sent to fetch his exalted guest merely nodded and rapped a complicated rhythm on a little panel in a recess set into the stone just beside the gate doors.
Lord Oldbridle stepped back, giving Burrath a swift “be ready” glance. Nothing in his master’s face suggested that Olgarth Oldbridle was impressed in the slightest by the Suzailan mansion of Andranth Glarvreth, wealthy and successful ironmongery and glasspane merchant—but then, these days, the jaded and cynical head of House Oldbridle was very seldom impressed by anything.
Inside Burrath’s quivering and defeated mind, Manshoon smiled, awaiting the entertainment soon to come. If anything in this part of the world was more haughtily ridiculous than a Cormyrean noble, it was a rising newcoin personage who hungrily sought to join the ranks of that nobility.
Like this man Glarvreth, who’d invited Oldbridle to dinner. Seeking his support, no doubt, which meant this meal should be an enjoyable feed rather than an agonized and ultimately fatal nightmare of poisoning.
The gates opened, servants bowed, and they passed within. Burrath held his peace, offering no challenges to the retainers who glared at him as he followed his master, striding along just behind Oldbridle’s right shoulder. They offered no open insult, for if a noble had been limited to just one bodyguard, that guardian should be considered extremely capable, well equipped, and dangerous.
Manshoon waited until the polite greetings were done and Glarvreth had politely asked if, as he fondly hoped, this evening found Lord Oldbridle in the fairest of health.
That was when Burrath leaned forward to murmur in his master’s ear, loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, “My Lord Oldbridle, twice in the streets I caught sight of men I believe were following us. It is only right that Lord Glarvreth should know.”
If his master was annoyed at his bodyguard’s boldness or at Burrath’s referring to their host as if the man had achieved the nobility he so hungrily craved, he did not show it. For his part, Glarvreth flushed with pleasure at the honorific and gave a silent hand signal to his retainers. Burrath did not appear to even glance at their movements, but Manshoon knew how many departed and that they were armed with daggers and bowguns no doubt treated with venom.
They slipped out into the streets to hunt no one at all. Manshoon had invented the followers he’d made Burrath speak of, but he was certain Glarvreth’s zealous agents would find some. Slaughter was coming to the streets of Suzail, giving Emperor Manshoon something to crack down on.
Burrath knew only a little of what his master suspected—but Manshoon was well aware, from visiting certain minds in the palace, that Andranth Glarvreth headed a long-established covert Sembian presence in Suzail that had been patiently awaiting a good chance to seize power for years.
This Council seemed increasingly likely to provide a superb opportunity. Of course, Glarvreth’s cabal would have to thwart some rival undercover factions seeking to accomplish the same thing—such as the one headed by Kormoroth of Westgate. And if open civil strife broke out, they would have to be very careful as to which Cormyrean nobles they backed and whom they’d slay, betray, or thwart.
Some nobles wanted a return to elder days in Cormyr, when a handful of wealthy and powerful oldcoin noble Houses ran the realm and kept a puppet Obarskyr on the throne, with a royal magician who served the foremost Houses as the royal leash, And any wizards of war the kingdom might suffer to exist would be mere hedge-wizards who patrolled with the lowliest Dragons and did the bidding of swordcaptains. Newer and more minor noble families could
be swept into graves at the earliest pretext, shopkeepers and farmers firmly reminded of their proper places underfoot. And Sembia taught a sharp, swift lesson in a war that would loot their coffers and restore the Bleths, Cormaerils, and the rest to staggering wealth and whimsical lives of ordering matters in cities and realms far away. Lord Alsevir and Lord Huntcrown led that faction, but there were some hints that each man was preparing to oust the other, if ever he got power and opportunity enough.
Then there were two smaller groups of oldcoin nobles who wanted the Obarskyrs gone and a new royal House on the Dragon Throne.
The schemers led by Lord Crownrood, on the other hand, wanted “the old rot” of all the long-prominent families swept from the kingdom. The likes of the Illances, Crownsilvers, and Huntcrownsuch would be exiled or exterminated, so past excesses and treacheries would never be repeated as the realm flourished anew under the wise and benevolent rule of King Melder Crownrood, of course. Manshoon could barely suppress a snort just thinking of those arguments.
The schemers led by the Goldfeathers and the Emmarasks wanted a ruling council of six lords—unsurprisingly led by House Goldfeather and House Emmarask—to choose a king to do their bidding, after which all the large and wealthy noble families not on the Council, old and new, would be stripped of wealth and titles and turned out of the realm by order of that stern new king. Just how the six ruling lords intended to manage that, Manshoon hadn’t yet heard … and he doubted they’d prepared any proper plan for carrying out that grand scouring, or could, when the time came, accomplish anything set forth in any plan at all.
The younger and more minor Houses understandably wanted no part of oldcoin rule. Manshoon had heard of factions led by Lords Halvaeron and Torchmore but hadn’t yet identified who really supported them or what plans and preparations—if any—they had made.
He had heard whispers galore among the nobility gathered in Suzail that someone was meddling in nobles’ minds—must be, to make the timid act so boldly and stalwart oldcoats abandon their long-nursed feuds so swiftly and completely—but there was no agreement at all as to who was doing it, and how.
Well, the “how” was magic, of course, but cast by whom? Hired outlander mages, or wizards of war playing their own games or serving the Crown in some dark set-nobles-against-nobles scheme—the identity of the caster was something titled Cormyreans could not agree on. Not even to decide if the mage who’d so emboldened and advised the young fool Stormserpent was the same spellhurler who must be hiding the commander of the blueflame ghosts from all the house wizards—and palace mages, too—seeking the ghost-wielder.
Manshoon suppressed a smile. It was nice to have one’s meddlings noticed and feared, even if no one knew who was behind them, yet. Ah, but the time for that would come …
They were being led into a high-beamed, splendid feasting hall. One of its walls was covered in magnificent relief carvings of hunting scenes, the opposite wall pierced by an impressive row of toweringly, narrow, arched windows. Polished platters gleamed back the reflections of many candles hanging in sconces, which also mirrored flickering flames all along the row of windows.
Glarvreth turned with a smile. “Be welcome to my table, Lord Oldbridle! Let us—”
The rest of his words were lost in a series of nigh deafening, shrieking crashes, as several of the windows burst into the room, shattering into countless tumbling shards under the boots of heavily armed men swinging on stout ropes. The men landed hard, staggering as they whipped out swords and hand axes, then set to work hacking and hewing anyone who moved.
Glarvreth shouted and fled, his guest forgotten.
Guards streamed into the hall, but the invaders ignored them. They raced after Glarvreth as the merchant wrenched open a secret door in the hunting-scene wall and plunged through it.
Lord Oldbridle tried to follow—but got chopped to the floor by the foremost armed intruder.
Burrath drove his sword over the dying lord and right down the throat of Oldbridle’s slayer. Then he sprang free and crashed through the door, shoulder first, before Glarvreth could shove it closed.
Flung backward by the door, the merchant promptly fled.
“Close it! Close it!” he shrieked over his shoulder as he disappeared down a dark and narrow passage that ran along behind the carved wall.
Burrath did so as fast as he could, hacking at an intruder trying to burst through, until the man fell back. The door slammed. Finding a bar and stout cradles to hold it, he barred the door for good measure.
Heavy blows promptly fell upon the closed door. He did not tarry to see how long it would hold.
“Who’s your foe?” he shouted, running after Glarvreth.
“Kormoroth of Westgate!” a shout came back. “Didn’t you recognize him? You just killed him!”
A heavy, metallic crash followed those words as some sort of portcullis slammed down across the passage in front of Burrath, separating him from the fleeing Glarvreth.
The bodyguard stopped, shrugged, and retreated down the passage past the barred door. Enthusiastically wielded axes started to bite through it, but it was stout and thick; he should have ample time to find another way out of Glarvreth’s mansion.
In the other direction, the passage ended at a door that opened into a back pantry. Cooks and maids scurried and screamed; his arrival sent them dashing headlong into rooms beyond.
Manshoon took his borrowed body after them, confident they’d take a back way out—kitchen slops must go somewhere, and almost always through a handy rear exit—and he could follow them to somewhere far from murderous cabals from Westgate.
Not that this night had been wasted. Far from it. Andranth Glarvreth was a badly frightened man, and the struggle for Cormyr’s future was now short one ambitious adventurer-merchant outlander. Ah, well, no doubt the butchery would manage to stumble along without him.
“Here,” Amarune said suddenly, ducking into a gate. “This is private enough!” She dragged Storm into the gateway with her and flung her arms around the taller woman.
“Rune,” Arclath hissed, still panting from having just jumped down from the saddle of a hurrying horse, wrestled the same winded and upset mount to a pawing, bucking halt, then plucked his white-knuckled lady down from that same saddle, “What’re you doing? This is the royal gardens! They’re guarded at night, and—”
“No harm done, lord, if your lasses come no farther in,” the calm growl of a veteran Purple Dragon came out of the darkness on the far side of the gate. “Unless—ahem—ye’re in need of some trifling assistance in, ah, handling them—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Arclath snapped, tugging a little tentatively at the two embracing women. He had hold, he discovered, of Storm’s elbow. In response to his pulling she made an ardent moaning sound, setting Rune to helpless giggling.
He let his hand fall, knowing without looking that ashes would be streaming from the tall Harper to his beloved. His Amarune was surrendering to Elminster.
Again.
“Damn you, wizard,” he said under his breath, catching himself just in time to avoid announcing to the guard—and all the Dragon’s unseen fellows; they never stood guard alone—that a mage was involved in this.
“The palace is still open to those announcing their belated arrival for the Council, I suppose?” he asked more loudly.
“No, lord,” came the firm reply, out of the night. “There’s been … trouble. The Council’s put off until morning, and palace and court both locked up tight now, under full guard. Were I you, I’d take yourselves well away from here until you hear the three horncalls on the morrow. If you or anyone tries to get in before then, we’ve orders to resist. Forcibly.”
“Ah. I quite see. My thanks, loyal sword.”
“Fair even to you, lord,” came the friendly reply.
Arclath sighed and tugged at Storm’s elbow again. This time she and Amarune came willingly back into the street with him.
“You have warm bathwater at Delca
stle Manor, I presume?” the silver-haired Harper asked sweetly.
“We do,” Arclath replied curtly, setting a brisk pace down the Promenade toward the brightly lit stretch where it swept around the imposing front of the royal court. “And while you splash, Lady Immerdusk, I have some words I’d like to exchange with a certain Elminster.”
“Ye’re saving them, lad?” Rune muttered in Elminster’s voice. “Are ye now short of words, for some reason? I hadn’t noticed any lack of them!”
By highsun the next day, the bodyguard of a murdered noble might be a hunted man in Suzail—or might be far beneath the notice of local lawkeepers, if the Council went the way he expected it to. Manshoon took no chances. Burrath scaled the taller shop next to the alchemist’s and made the dangerous leap down onto Sraunter’s roof, landing with a teeth-rattling, roof-shaking thud that roused the reelingly exhausted Sraunter from his bed. Saving Burrath the trouble of shaking him awake.
Manshoon had the alchemist give Burrath something to drink that would send him right down into slumber and keep him there for a good long time, then forced the long-suffering Sraunter to yield up his own bed to the man.
Sraunter was too falling-down weary to argue. He fell asleep in the next room after scrabbling up the blanket he wanted from a seldom-opened chest.
Manshoon left him that way and rode one of the five beholderkin out into the night. There were dozens of little touches that still needed seeing to, if the Council was to be the splendid success—or, to those who liked Cormyr’s present ways and stability, the utter disaster—he intended it to be.
“These realms,” he murmured, causing the beholderkin to emit a hissing hum, “belong to those who care to shape them to their will. Until I eliminate all others who dare such shapings, of course.”
Arclath had firmly shut the door on the carefully expressionless faces of the servants who’d pumped the hot water up from the kitchen kettles, leaving them to think whatever thoughts they wanted to about the younger Lord Delcastle sharing the manor’s best bathing chamber with a mask dancer and an unfamiliar silver-haired woman.