by Ed Greenwood
Storm plunged into the large, pink, marble bath his mother liked to soak in, even before Arclath got himself turned around to offer her a robe. He suddenly faced a swiftly disrobing Rune, who promptly perched on the edge of the bath and told him, in Elminster’s growl, “Ye know this Council is going to fall into bloodshed and civil strife, don’t ye? With Foril slain right then and there, if Tymora smiles not and we don’t fight hard and well?”
“What?” Arclath snapped back at him. “Even with the mighty Elminster standing guard over it?”
Elminster shrugged. “How so?” He waved one of Rune’s arms down at her bare and shapely self—even as Storm rose like a striding sea devil from the bath, gesturing to Rune that the waters were all hers—and told the young noble sourly, “This body won’t even get me through the doors.”
Arclath’s mouth clamped down into a thin, hard line, and his stare became a murderous glare.
“Oh, no,” he spat. “No. I am not letting you into my head. I’m sure you can use some spell or other to force your way in and burn away my hold over my own body in mere moments—but I’ll fight you. I will never surrender my body, nor let House Delcastle’s vote and voice be stolen by … by a wizard I can’t trust, who could in truth be anyone, who … who …”
He ran out of words and clawed the air furiously, in an exasperated “away with you!” gesture.
Storm ducked under his flailing arm and plucked up a robe, leaving Rune to reply, as she in turn sank down in the warm, scented water, “I won’t be forcing my way into thy mind, lad. ’Tis not necessary. Yet. I’m merely warning ye to expect the worst. I can see it ahead, and I’m nigh powerless to stand against it.”
“So you’re not the legendary, all-powerful Elminster?”
“I was never all-powerful. Not even close. I was at best a scurrying, none-too-organized, overworked castle errand-boy. Aye, that’s the best way for ye to view what I did and was. I’m a lot less than that now. And, yes, there’s precious little I can do to stave off disaster at the Council.”
“ ‘Precious little’?” Arclath flung back at him bitterly. “So why do you always act as if you can take care of everything?”
El wagged a wise old finger in a way Amarune would never have done, and said mildly, “That master-of-all-things act accomplishes much, lad. All by itself. Try it; ye’ll see.”
“Gah!” Arclath burst out, words failing him again.
Storm tapped him on the shoulder. “After all that tramping through the forest, you need a bath,” she said gently. “And while you’re in there, sluice off a little of that seething anger and give us back the jaunty, debonair Fair Flower of House Delcastle that all Suzail is so used to seeing sporting airily about the streets.”
Arclath glared at her, trying—and succeeding—to keep his eyes above her chin and not straying down to the rest of her, which she was casually using the panels of the open robe to rub dry.
“And with Cormyr about to plunge into blood-drenched disaster, what good will that do?” he snapped.
“Entertain us all far more than your seething anger,” she replied gently.
“Gah!” Elminster supplied helpfully, before Arclath could find the breath he needed to make that very same comment again.
Arclath stared at him—or rather, at Amarune’s bare, wet body, as she stepped out of the bath to take the robe Storm was offering her—then turned and hurled himself into the bath in a great angry dive that sent its waters crashing against walls and ceilings.
Somehow, as bubbles roared past his ears and the half-dissolved scented soaps in the water made his eyes start to sting, he felt a little better.
He might be heading into the worst noble-slaughtering bloodbath Cormyr had ever seen, but at least he’d be clean and smell sweet.
CHAPTER
NINE
IN STATELY CONCLAVE MET
Horns blew a fanfare that the cool morning air carried far across Suzail, summoning the invited heads of noble Houses to the Council of Dragons. Arclath’s rising had awakened Amarune, though he’d dressed and dashed from Delcastle Manor without a word to either of his guests.
Storm quietly opened Rune’s door, the coverlet wrapped around herself in a clumsy way, and wordlessly had handed her a bundle of clothes. They all proved to be magnificent gowns. Borrowed from Lady Delcastle’s wardrobes, Rune guessed, but decided not to ask. Storm had vanished again, anyhail.
Amarune found something dark, long, and simple that more or less fit her. It was too ample for her taste but could be drawn tightly around her waist with a sash, and Storm had provided several beautiful ones. She put on her own clout and boots under it, looked at herself in the guest chamber mirror, winced, then shrugged and flung open the door.
Storm was leaning against the passage wall outside, also in her own worn boots—full of Elminster’s ashes, of course—but above them wore a splendid gown Rune was sure Lady Delcastle would miss.
“Come,” Storm said softly. “We’re off to storm the palace.”
They hurried out of the Delcastle mansion, nodding to servants without slowing, and hastened through the grounds.
Coaches rumbled along the streets, and once through the gates they saw some nobles on foot, too, walking in their finery.
Hand in hand, Storm and Rune set off down the street to join them.
Another fanfare rang out across the city.
“That’s the second,” a wealthy merchant who hoped to be soon ennobled declared to one of the nobles converging on the palace, Beckoning banners flapped above the gates. “The third won’t sound until we’re all seated, to let the city know the talking’s about to begin. Brought your belt flask, I hope, for the boring bits?”
The noble ignored him, striding on without pause or reply.
Citizens came out onto their balconies and peered from their windows and the doors of shops to watch the nobles stroll past.
There was that young fop, Lord Arclath Delcastle, and yonder quiet old Lord Adarl Summerstar (“A proper gentlesir, him!”), and beyond them, in an open carriage and wearing a magnificent hat, the Lady Deleira Truesilver (“Didn’t she take to her bed, not long ago? Looks well enough, now!”)
Those on the Promenade, or whose vantage points were close enough, could see watchful lines of war wizards at the gates.
None of the watchers were close enough to hear one of the older guards flanking the inner doors tell his junior partner—inexperienced, but a swifter runner than the veteran—that the visible war wizards were the least powerful, there largely for show.
“The truly powerful are already inside, peering into minds and watching and listening like owls a-hunting.”
“I’ll be glad when this day’s done,” was the muttered reply.
“You and me both, lad,” the older guard replied. “The third fanfare’s when all the fun begins—the actual start of the Council.”
The strong, cloyingly sweet tropical blossoms that scented the wax Lord Naeryk Andolphyn had used to freshly shape the two chin-spikes of his forked beard was making Lord Danthalus Blacksilver feel faintly ill, but Blacksilver forebore from saying so. If his sharp-featured newfound friend hadn’t offered him a ride to the palace gates, he’d have been reduced to walking.
Their coach rumbled over some loose cobbles, then clottered past many a walking lord as the two spent the ride trading opinions of newly discovered wines and superior cheeses from far lands. Idle chatter was something Lord Danthalus Blacksilver considered himself rather good at.
“Oh, gods,” his host exclaimed, breaking off in mid-rhapsody over Sembian soft sharpnip and looking behind them. “Wouldn’t you know it? I thought only the ladies indulged in that sort of nonsense!”
“What?” Blacksilver asked and then saw. “Oh. Oh, I see. I quite see.”
Behind them on the Promenade were large, ornate coaches drawn by matching teams of splendid horses, each conveyance bearing a lone lord, seemed to need a score of horses to pull him along. In the far distance, even grand
er wagons appeared—one looked like a ship hauled up out of the harbor onto a massive cart, and another appeared to have balconies—all moving toward the palace.
In this, as in most other matters, the nobles of Cormyr were seeking to outdo each other.
Blacksilver peered at a coach team with a peculiar slinking gait. “Are those … lions?”
“Yes,” Andolphyn said shortly. “Must be using a hired wizard to keep ’em under the whip. Hope no one casts any mischief.”
Something that seemed to be drawn by dragons came into view, and Andolphyn shook his head in fresh disbelief. “Oxen cloaked by illusions, must be. Those can’t be real.”
Blacksilver chuckled uneasily as their coach slowed, nearing the cluster in front of the gates. “If I know anything about war wizards, their fury soon will be, though.”
In this, he was correct. Two coaches rounded the curve of the Promenade in the far distance, escorted by shining-armored outriders whose mounts, long banner lances, and splendid armor outshone those of the best Purple Dragon honor guards. A rather large number of outriders.
“Someone’s brought along his own army,” a gruff old lord in a nearby open carriage commented—as wizards of war stormed past, hastening on foot from the palace toward the still-distant outriders. Onlookers in windows and shop doorways were murmuring, having caught sight of the unauthorized military might on display.
Andolphyn and Blacksilver saw the hurrying Crown mages stop just long enough to work spells then hasten sternly on. A tense breath or two later the outriders were all trotting briskly past, on down the line of coaches and right past the palace. Trotting at the exact same pace, despite some spur-kicking and hauling on reins by their surprised-looking riders.
One outrider even fell off, and his empty-saddled mount continued right on. He ran after it, caught hold of the reins, and pulled hard; it dragged him, slowing not in the least.
On the riders went, up the Promenade to the Eastgate and out through it, some of them yelling for help or cursing.
Andolphyn laughed. “Willing to wager Dragons are waiting outside the gates with a camp set up to gather those dolts in?”
Blacksilver shook his head. “I’ll not take that wager. I’m sure they are.”
He looked again at the lions. “I hope they’ve enough war wizards to quell battles, or …”
“Yes,” Andolphyn agreed. “ ‘Or,’ indeed.”
The name of Lord Arclath Delcastle held no weight at the gates; the Dragons there looked her up and down and shook their heads.
Amarune looked past them, hoping—in vain—to see Arclath.
“I’m expected!” she said almost pleadingly. “Lord Delcastle will be escorting me on from here!”
The guards merely laughed, shook their heads, and said firmly, “Not today, lass.”
Whereupon Storm Silverhand took her hand and led her around the Dragons toward the watchful line of war wizards, telling the guards smoothly, “The lady is expected, saers.”
As they stared at her in surprise, she added, “Please come with me, Lady Amarune. Lord Delcastle is being kept busy by some of his more, ah, demanding fellow lords, and sent me to bring you to him.”
She swept a startled Amarune into the palace, mouthing the words “Ganrahast tells me the falcon is dark” to the nearest war wizard.
Startled at being given the passphrase by someone he didn’t recognize, he blinked and yielded way, murmuring, “Who are you?”
Storm gave him a smile so warm he blushed, and with little stars of promise shining in her eyes, replied, “Someone in disguise.”
“No doubt,” came a cold and familiar voice from just inside the palace door. “Wherefore you can turn right around, both of you, and depart this place. Go far. We’re much too busy today to entertain mask dancers and thieves.”
“Why, Glathra, dear,” Storm replied mockingly, “doesn’t Foril need you at his side right now, far more than we do?”
“Speak the king’s name with more respect, if you dare utter it at all!” Glathra spat, waving at the guards beside her to move Storm and Rune away. “Get them gone,” she ordered. “Now.”
Faces hardening, the Dragons advanced. “You heard her,” the foremost snapped. “Go—or be taken!”
“If they resist, there’s no need to be gentle,” Glathra added, turning away to give some arriving nobles a glare.
Storm took Amarune’s hand again and strode off down the street too quickly for the guards to bother to follow far.
“Now what?” Rune murmured. “Are we giving up?”
“Of course not. There are scores of ways into the palace,” Storm whispered back. “Right here, for instance.”
She ducked into an exclusive-looking shop, gave the proprietress a wave that incorporated some sort of subtle signal, then ducked through a side door in the shop showroom and down a dark and narrow flight of stairs … only to come to a halt in front of a spearpoint that had a hard-faced Purple Dragon behind it. Beyond him was a lantern, and beyond that more guards and a war wizard.
“The palace,” the half-seen mage intoned flatly, “is closed. Return tomorrow.”
Without a word Storm went back up the stair and out into the street, with Rune hurrying to catch up.
“They’ll have every way guarded,” the dancer sighed.
And it soon seemed that they had. The stable gates were closed and manned by a row of alert Dragons with spears. The next two secret shop-tunnels Storm tried were also guarded. And the door of the high house behind the stables was answered not by the usual beautiful chatelaine, but by a sour-looking wizard of war who said firmly, “No bedwarmer-lasses are wanted in the palace this day or night, thank you,” and closed the door in their faces.
“The royal gardens are full of guards, too,” Rune commented, looking past Storm’s shoulder. “Was that the last way in?”
“No,” Storm replied, “but I was hoping to avoid the slow and unpleasant ones. Or we may reach the Council chamber too late to be of any use.” Putting a finger to her lips for silence, she strolled along the ivy-cloaked wall of the high house they’d just been shut out of, turned the corner to continue along the side wall, and let herself through a narrow swinging gate into the house garden.
She was just reaching for a particular section of the ivy-drenched wall ahead when the hidden door she was seeking in it opened. The same wizard glared out at her, wand in hand, and said, “You’re far more persistent than a mere coinlass would be. I think we’ll just—”
The pot that struck the back of his head then made a solid thlangg sound, and the mage’s eyes rolled up in his head before he collapsed in a heavy, untidy heap on the doorsill.
A bewhiskered old face grinned out at Storm and Rune over the hairy hand that held the pot.
“Well met, lasses! Storm, ye got me into the palace, an’ the food an’ drink I’ve been scrounging since have been splendid, so ’tis my turn to do ye a favor! Let me drag this lard-sack out of the way, then come in and be welcome!”
“Mirt!” Storm greeted him happily, “I could kiss you!”
He took her up on her offer, promptly and enthusiastically, and she responded so warmly that Amarune, squeezing past them, murmured in her ear, “You sure you haven’t spent time mask dancing?”
Storm chuckled and broke free of Mirt’s lips.
“Later, old lecher,” she told him fondly. “We’re in some haste right now. We’ve got a kingdom to save.”
“What, another one? Which one is it this time?”
Hiding watchfully behind the darting eyes of the young and excited Lord Jassur Dragonwood, Manshoon listened hard to comments from all around as noble lords jostled and glared, laughed and waved … and shuffled through one of the doorways into the Hall of Justice. From what he was hearing, no goading would be necessary; these lords were spoiling for a chance to rebuke the king.
He’d prejudged matters rightly, which is why he was well away from the minds of Crownrood and Loroun and had left all memories o
f him heavily cloaked from them. Freed from his influence, they could better be themselves—and as they were as expendable as every other titled lord and lady of the Forest Kingdom, any recklessnesses they indulged in were just fine with him.
So long as someone dragged out a sword and disrupted this Council, or Foril was forced to turn tyrant to keep order, causing most of the nobles to end up seething at him, the future Emperor of Cormyr and Beyond would be well content.
Now, had the palace dolts been foolish enough to try to dictate seating? No, it seemed not, aside from a small royal area.
Ah, well, that sort of blunder would have made things too easy.
In the crowd of nobles outside another door into the Hall of Justice, Arclath glanced back down the long, crimson-carpeted palace passage he’d just traversed, wondering if he’d ever see its splendors so unbesmirched, and its guards standing quite so peacefully again. To do so, he had to peer past the shoulder of Lord Braelbane—year in and year out, still a tiresome old wind-horn—and was startled to see a superbly gowned Amarune Whitewave halfway down that passage, walking toward him.
Dodging past Braelbane without a word, he strode to meet her. “You got in? How?”
A nearby guard turned his head sharply to give Amarune a hard look, and she laughed, replying, “Why, Arclath, what better chance to see the palace and try to decide if I’d like it here, without a lot of questions being asked by bored guards and courtiers and war wizards and highnoses … ah, other highnoses?”
“Nobles,” he corrected her.
“Nobles,” she echoed.
Arclath drew her close, giving the guard a “none of your affair” frown, and murmured, “But … but how’d you get in, Rune? Past the guards and all?”
“Mirt let us in,” Amarune replied. “Storm and me, that is—”