by Ed Greenwood
Suddenly, his intent peering was interrupted by Amarune’s face, bobbing up right in front of his, nose to nose.
“You could give me a kiss,” she suggested in a whisper, offering her lips. “Lord Delcastle.”
“But of course,” he murmured airily. “Where are my manners?”
Manshoon leaned back in his chair, a stylish goblet of Lord Relgadrar Loroun’s best wine in his hand, and regarded his host.
Loroun sat across the table staring past him, rendered dumb and immobile by Manshoon’s grip on his mind.
That mind was a dark and fascinating place. Loroun was another Crownrood, only more so. The lord had dabbled in half a dozen intrigues against the Crown and knew of thrice that many. Most were fledgling, stillborn attempts at small, sneaking treasons, more angry talk in back rooms and minor deceptions against Crown inspectors than matters of swords-out or real harm. But a few had gone as far as specific plans for killings and seizures of keeps and bridges once the hated wizards of war were dealt with.
That did not surprise Manshoon at all. If there were no mages spying for the Dragon Throne and hurling spells at any sign of insurrection, this land would have been drenched in the blood of civil strife long ago-many times over.
What was a surprise was what had driven him to pour a second glass of wine and spend far more time than he’d intended sorting through Loroun’s thoughts, searching for more. Loroun knew a surprising amount about the foremost Sembian-sponsored treason afoot in Suzail.
Most folk believed a mind held thoughts like some sort of gigantic ledger or written tome: ordered sentences that stayed in one spot and could easily be consulted time and again. Most folk were fools.
Even the simplest mind held thoughts as images-fading, overlapping, confusingly melded images that swam around in endless rearrangements, clinging to favorite linkages but apt to move, links and all, anywhere in the shifting murk.
It was enough to drive a man-even an accomplished archwizard gone vampire-mad.
Manshoon smirked. More mad, as Elminster might have said.
He was thankful that he no longer had to contend with that particular old menace, or have any regard at all for the ancient fool’s views.
These Sembian intrigues, now…
Manshoon was no Cormyrean, and what he knew of Suzail’s streets came from the relatively few citizens whose minds he’d plundered. Though some of those minds had known much, “Andranth Glarvreth” was not a name he’d ever heard before.
Apparently, Glarvreth was a successful, established merchant dealing in imports of ironmongery and glasspane. “Respectable” in the eyes of the city, a merchant who supplied shops, rather than a shopkeeper himself. Suzailan-born and grown quite wealthy, he was one of the growing number of successful citizens who wanted to be nobles but hadn’t yet been admitted to the titled ranks. A rebuff that festered behind their well-fed smiles.
It certainly did behind Glarvreth’s. Enough that the man had scorned Loroun in private twice, rather than accept his friendship and common cause in certain plots against the Crown. Glarvreth wanted to carve his own way to a title, not accept the help of any noble of Cormyr.
The importer’s intended road to nobility, Loroun’s spies had long ago learned, lay through Sembia. Glarvreth headed the strongest Sembian-backed scheme to bring down or enthrall the Dragon Throne, and had assembled a sizeable armory hidden right in the heart of Suzail.
Sipping wine in growing amusement, Manshoon settled down to learn all he could about Andranth Glarvreth from Lord Loroun’s sour, resentful mind.
Loroun went right on staring. Dust was beginning to settle on his frozen, glaring eyeballs.
Manshoon discovered the goblet in his hand had somehow become empty and started to rise.
Then he sat back and compelled his newfound servant to fetch the decanter for him. It was more fun to make the stiffly staggering Loroun do the work.
Clumsy servant though he was.
Yes, servant. “Slave” was such an ugly word.
“Will it bother you much to leave Suzail behind?”
“I… know not, yet. I don’t think so, but I don’t know so,” Arclath replied thoughtfully, staring into the hot orange coals of the fire that warmed their faces.
He and Rune were talking together after a meal of astonishingly tasty forest roots and leaves, flavored with a meaty paste that Arclath strongly suspected had been made from freshly scooped snails.
The cook was standing watch a few strides away, on the far side of a large tree, leaning against the trunk facing out into the night. If Arclath leaned and peered, he could just see the side of one of Storm’s boots, but she hadn’t moved a muscle, so far as he could tell, or made a sound, for…
Well, a long time.
He quelled a yawn. Just how late was it? Night had fallen a good long time ago, and rustlings arose in the brush here and there, well beyond the light of the fire. He hadn’t seen eyes peering out of the darkness, yet, but “Good even, foresters. If you are foresters,” Storm said suddenly, her voice calm, firm, and loud. “Will you share our fire?”
Her challenge floated out into the night. After what seemed a long time, some sudden cracklings and twig-snappings arose… and seven foresters with bows in their hands and daggers at their belts stepped out of the dark forest and approached the fire. They formed a wide arc that almost encircled the camping glade; the only gap in their line was toward the road.
The elder foresters had impressive beards and hard, weathered faces to match. They regarded Storm expressionlessly, and one who looked to be the oldest said, “We are foresters. The king’s foresters on patrol. And who would you be?”
“Nobles of Cormyr who have been vastly entertained by your attempts to stealthily encircle us,” Storm replied gently.
“Nobles, hey? You, lad, what might your title be?”
As he flung that question, the oldest forester strode forward, drawing his dagger. Behind him, others strung their bows.
Arclath stood up and put his hand to his sword. “I am Lord Arclath Delcastle, and this is Lady Delcastle. The lady you’ve just spoken with is the Marchioness Immerdusk.”
“Not noble Houses I’ve heard of,” another forester growled, as the ring of men in leather and homespun tightened around the fire.
The oldest forester came to a stop facing Arclath and held up his hand in a wave that might have meant “stop” or might have meant “halt, let us have peace.”
“Well, then, Lord Delcastle,” he asked, “is this all of you? Three afoot? I’ve never seen a noble out here without a horse and several servants. Are you running from something?” Two foresters fitted shafts to their bows.
Two more reached swiftly for arrows after Storm stepped away from her tree to face them, her long, silver hair winding about her shoulders like a nest of restless snakes.
The old forester eyed her for a moment, and then looked back at Arclath.
“Well, noble lord? You have my questions; have you any answers for me?”
Manshoon sat back, frowning. His exploration of Loroun’s mind was done, and the noble’s wits and tongue had been restored to him. He was sitting there in his sweat, glowering at Manshoon as much as he dared to and reaching for the wine.
Loroun knew a lot-but much of it was hints, gossip, and reports from men he paid to spy but trusted little. Suzail could be a seething snakepit of men just aching to erupt into widespread treason… or it could be a nobles’ den of arrogant malcontents, a few of whom had dreams and a few more of whom had loud, unguarded tongues.
Which made it not much different from anywhere else that had nobles.
Westgate, Zhentil Keep, Sembia… he’d tasted them all and found them very much the same in this respect. True traitors seldom made much noise. Those too fearful to ever do anything, unless carried away in the heat and blood of someone else’s tumult, did most of the blustering and taunting and making of grand doom promises. Loroun was at least shrewd enough to know he was dealing with shado
ws more than things that could be held and trusted, which put him above many of the young fools Manshoon had encountered in this city these last two nights, as nobles gathered to attend this Council.
“I have a question or two, Lord Manshoon,” Loroun said, his voice polite, “and I believe that in a world that knows any shred of fairness, it is more than my turn for answers, if you have them.”
Surprised, Manshoon unfolded one hand palm upward, in a silent signal to proceed.
“What’s become of these blueflame ghosts? Are they a war-wizard weapon, soon to be sent out to hunt down nobles? Or, are they a sword wielded by a noble? Or, do they instead obey a Sembian or some other outlander foe of Cormyr? Or, are they the tools of someone who wants to be noble and is determined to butcher lords until so many titles and holdings are vacant that the Crown may well ennoble him seeking to fill them?”
“Good questions, all,” Manshoon replied. “So good that I can answer none of them.” He raised a swift forefinger and added soothingly, “Yet I am trying to find out.”
Whereupon Loroun glared at him with narrowing eyes and demanded, “Or is it you?”
Manshoon shook his head. “If it were, Loroun, do you think I’d waste my time befriending you? Hmmm?”
“We are… serving the Crown in a matter we cannot discuss,” Arclath improvised, glancing at Storm to see if she approved. She gave him a solemn wink, strolled over to Amarune, and put her arm around the dancer’s shoulders.
“El?” Rune whispered.
“Not yet,” Storm murmured. “Only if need be.”
The foresters had been cautiously drawing closer and peering closely at the three by the fire.
“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
I n 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 achieve
d 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.