“Well if it is, Hrel’s managed to get himself clear out to the front gates of the Royal Court to tell the lads there all about it. Which is passing odd, because as I recall, the two of you were just now stationed at either end of the north Palace guardstands, yes?”
“Yes,” Hreldur replied. “See, Drel?”
Drellusk nodded. “I yield me, and offer sorrows.”
“Taken,” his friend replied with dignity, and then turned his head excitedly and told the lionar, “A nude sorceress, they’re saying! All alone, but her spells animate a dozen swords to fight for her! She’s butchered dozens of war wizards and a few of us soldier-lads, too, and is still on the loose in the cellars!”
His words had brought the hastened trio of Purple Dragons to the room they’d been seeking in such haste: Hawkinshield Hall. One of the older, shabbier rooms of state at the north end of the Palace, it was where Vangerdahast was now trying to rally the war wizards he had left, and re-establish some security, with thousands of guests already flooding into the Palace.
Hreldur fell abruptly silent as he became aware his words fell loudly into a tense silence, and men were glaring at him.
Many men, all of them war wizards and high-ranking Dragons, and all of them clustered in a great ring around the Royal Magician of Cormyr.
Who now turned his head to give them a severe look and confirmed, “There’re reports—as you’ve just heard from Telsword Hreldur Imglurward, here—of an unclad sorceress running around the Palace cellars. If you should happen to see this almost-certainly fanciful lass, take her alive and bring her to me. There’ll be a reward.”
He waited for the predictable chuckles to arise from the male war wizards in the room, and didn’t bother looking to see how the handful of females reacted. Paying overmuch heed to the feelings of others was a luxury neither the Court Wizard of Cormyr nor the Royal Magician of the Realm had much time for—and being both, Vangerdahast had even less.
“One thing more,” the wizard growled. “The revel also seems to have attracted thieves, hired slayers, and adventurers here to the Palace this night. If you should happen to meet with anyone desiring urgently to reach the king, the queen, or even me, treat them with great suspicion. Even weapons-out hostility would not be seen amiss. Better far to safeguard the living, than guard corpses at a royal funeral, hmm?”
Chapter 23
WHEN COMMANDS CLASH
For good men go down in smoke and ash
When tempers fail and commands clash
Dathglur “the Roaring Bard”
from the ballad
Swords And War And Sorrows
published in the Year of Embers
Waving his gigantic, roiling-with-fat forearms about as wildly as any juggler, his face growing redder and redder, Master of the Kitchens Braerast Sklaenton looked more than ever like a gigantic, angry flameshell crab standing on its hind legs.
“No! Not a goblet goes out of this room that I don’t see put on a tray! And not a tray gets out that door without its carrier submitting to the spells of our war wizards! Can’t you dolts remember simple orders for longer than it takes you to say your own names? Darthin! Harlaw! Get back here!”
Jowls quivering, the head cook pointed the two serving-jacks across the busy kitchen to its far doors, where already-exhausted war wizards were slumped in chairs, their pale faces showing the sweating strain of mind-probing every passing servant to seek out would-be poisoners and assassins. “March your lasses yonder! And mind they stop in front of the spellhurlers and get themselves checked, good and proper!”
The way to those mages was an everchanging tangle of rushing, shouting scullery maids, cellarers, and carvers rushing this way and that with steaming dishes and various sharp forks, cleavers, and knives in their hands, too busy to even notice that the highfront black gowns of the serving-lasses proceeding so deftly among them went clear down to halfway along the upper curves of what Master Sklaenton would have called their “carvable rumps.”
The war wizards noticed, though, and managed faint smiles of appreciation that made the young lass of a mage who was Vangerdahast’s designate as their superior for this task frown disapprovingly, and tap the wand in her hand into her palm in irritation. A moment later, she flinched so wildly, it could almost have been termed a jump.
The cause was a sudden bellow from Master Sklaenton, almost in her ear. “Lankel! Where are the cakes?”
“Here, Master!” The faint shout came from an adjoining kitchen.
“Well, what good are they in there? They need to be here, right now, in the hands of these wenches!”
Undercook Lankel was seven summers beyond learning better than to argue or explain. “Yes, Master!” he cried, sounding eager.
The Master of the Kitchens nodded in broadly smiling satisfaction—ah, but they still jumped when he ordered them to—and turned away, ignoring War Wizard Varrauna Tarlyon’s glare. Sixteen thousand tarts awaited his attention, and he wasn’t moving as fast as he once did …
There was a brief commotion, then, as one of the servers stiffened and reared back from War Wizard Markel Dauren in his chair, hurling her tray of drinks into his face and spinning around to flee.
Only to halt in an instant as the wand in Varrauna’s hand clapped across her throat and paralyzed her. Markel shook his head to rid himself of some of the wine streaming down his face, but old Brasker in the chair beside him went right on probing serving-wenches as if trays of wine goblets were often hurled around.
Standing beside the quivering, wild-eyed lass in the backless gown, Varrauna touched the buckle of her belt and murmured, “We’ve found one, Lord Vangerdahast. Markel hasn’t had a chance to say much, through the wine she threw over him, but he said something like ‘Urlusk.’ ”
“The Merlusks,” the grim voice arising from her belt replied. “Never numerous, exiled by King Duar, quiet for years—and since the ascension of King Azoun, they’ve become nigh the most energetic patrons of slayers-for-hire east of Amn. They send someone to almost every large Court event. I’m amazed they haven’t run out of suicidal fools by now.”
The blood was still welling out of her. More slowly, now, but that was probably because she’d lost so much already.
Grimly Pennae jerked open her thirty-fourth door, wondering how long she’d still have strength enough to open anything.
It swung open to reveal heat, the crackling of a fire—and two startled, sweating young men clad only in sweat, boots, and clouts.
They had long, heavy iron tongs and pokers as long as spears in their hands, as they straightened up to gape at her from busily rolling logs into place. They’d been feeding fires under the blackened flanks of what looked like huge water boilers. Now, however, they were staring in utter astonishment at Pennae, wavering weakly against the doorframe. A lass bare above the belt of her breeches, who held a bloody sword in her hand as if she knew how to use it.
Smiles of delighted disbelief broke across their faces, and they turned to look at each other, as if to seek reassurance that they were indeed both seeing the same thing.
Which was when Pennae exploded forward, her sword ready to ward away the nearest lad’s poker—and slammed the hilt of her dagger against the side of his head with all the force she could still manage.
He fell, slack-jawed, but the pain of that jarring blow made her sob and stagger, blood pouring out of her sliced side with renewed vigor.
“What’re you—?” The second lad was still so startled by her revealed upperworks that he could barely do more than stare.
“Like them?” Pennae gasped, to set him nodding.
He did, obligingly, and she struck him senseless the same way she’d served his fellow, falling atop him and riding his sweaty bulk down to the floor.
Well, not every Cormyrean is bred for his brains.
Their clouts were none too clean, but knotted together they were just long enough to go around her ribs, to try to hold her wound closed.
Wincing,
Pennae reeled back out of that room leaning on a long poker—and, when she had to, on her sword, too.
Gods, but she was as weak as a bird.
A child’s toy bird, made of glued-together feathers …
Rellond Blacksilver staggered stiffly along a back hall of the Palace, clutching his ornamental court sword as if it reassured him.
In truth, it did. For a long time now his mind had been a wallowing, swirling fog, betimes crushed beneath great cataclysms of bright lights and roaring sounds, but now … now bedeviled only by unsettling gnawing feelings … through which he fought to fling to the one thought that had been his for as long as his faltering memory served him.
He was here to kill King Azoun on sight.
“Highknight,” a familiar voice rumbled, as a hand the size of a shovel shook her. “Lady Highknight.”
Her jaw and neck ached horribly, and her head rang like a temple bell. That stlarning, grauling brute Falconhand! How dare he?
This was what came of Azoun’s willful generosity. Though she’d benefited from it greatly—from that first tryst across his saddle to the training he’d made sure she got to the rank she now held—she’d warned him of it.
When he aided the disloyal, dangerous, and unsuitable, it was a weakness that could bring down the Dragon Throne.
Some backcountry thickneck of a ranger saves his life in a sword-brawl, and he gives the lad a charter, and a free hand at gathering the dregs of the countryside to go rampaging around with drawn swords, lording it over the law-abiding! Well, she’d put paid to that soon enough. Rangers tracked poorly when beheaded.
“Highknight?” the Doorwarden rumbled again, his shaking making her jaw shriek its pain through her skull. It must be broken.
She put a hand up to it to keep her talking from doing worse damage—could her jaw fall off, if she opened it too wide?—and managed to mumble, “My thanks, Baerem. Let me lie still for a bit. I must rise in my own way.”
“Lady Tarlgrael, are you hurt?”
“No,” she snapped, “I’m … all right, yes, I’m hurt.”
It galled her to waste a precious healing potion on a broken jaw, but gods above, this hurt! Not that she’d felt pain all that often, since her training had ended. She was too good with a blade for that.
She fumbled at her belt, found the vial she’d need, teased it forth, and almost spewed her guts with agony when she momentarily forgot her injury enough to try to do as she always did: pull the cork with her teeth.
Fighting down nausea in a red mist of pain that had her curled up and mewing like a cat, and hulking Baerem rumbling anxiously over her, she managed to twist the cork off with her fingers and let cool, soothing relief trickle down her throat.
Almost immediately she felt better, good enough to sit up—gaining an approving roar from Baerem, bless him—and rekindle her anger.
She was going to have that ranger’s neck—right now, not even taking the time to comfort Baerem or work with him at the winch to raise the dungeon door again.
The great iron barrier had split up the intruders but, so far as she could tell, crushed none of them, and its raising could wait until she’d downed Florin Falconhand and some or all of his Knights of Myth Drannor. She’d been told once which king had caused the barrier to be built, to wall off the lone way down into the Palace dungeons and prevent prison breaks, but there were no prisoners to keep safely penned up anymore.
There were just intruders stalking around the cellars of the Palace who should be prisoners, forthwith—or corpses.
Smiling, utterly unharmed now, the Lady Tarlgrael opened her eyes and held out her arms to Baerem, who reached down with that gentle deftness that still surprised her, to cradle her shoulders and ask anxiously, “Are you well again, Highknight?”
“I am, Dread Doorwarden of the Palace of the Dragon,” she told him formally, eyes flashing fire as she stood up, stretched like a cat in her dark leathers, and added, “And I will be even better when I’ve slain the man who escaped us both. Florin Falconhand must die.”
War wizards were apt to be a snappish, sour lot, but this one was worse than most. The young wenches generally were; they all seemed to think they had to prove their cods larger than any man’s.
First Sword Brelketh Velkrorn was interrupted in this less than happy thinking when the very war wizard he was measuring turned and glared back over her shoulder at him, fair tresses swirling. “Dragons,” she snapped, beckoning imperiously. “To me!”
The trio of Purple Dragons kept their faces carefully impassive as they trotted forward, all of them privately wondering just what, here in the back halls of the Palace, could be so stlarned exciting that their presence was so urgently required—and why War Wizard Tarlauma Hallowhar felt the need order them around so dramatically.
“That man! He imperils the Crown! Look you, how he clutches his sword, his strange demeanor? Take him! I want him alive, mind!”
The veteran Purple Dragons looked along the line of her lancelike pointing arm at a lone man stumbling slowly toward them, down an otherwise deserted passage.
“Yon’s Rellond the Roughshod!” Telsword Briarhult told her. “A peril to every lass who catches his eye, yes, but not to the king or Vangey—and I think even he has wits enough not to lay lecherous hands upon Queen Filfaeril!”
He shook his head, the three Dragons turning away as one, but Hallowhar put a firm hand on his shoulder and hissed, “Look! Look now!”
The Dragons sighed, turned, and beheld a courtier rushing up behind Blacksilver, calling softly, “Rellond! Rellond, there’s a room I wanted you to see, remember? And I promised to polish your sword. Give it here and I’ll get started on it, the moment we’re settled.”
Bravran Merendil’s voice trembled. He hoped that’s how a courtier would talk, because that war wizard and no fewer than three Purple Dragons were standing farther along the passage staring right at him. Somehow, he had to get Blacksilver—gods, the man must be little better than the shuffling undead by now, with the mindworms gnawing away but no one using them to compel him—turned around and locked in a storeroom somewhere until the revel was done. Thank the gods he hadn’t gotten around to poisoning Blacksilver’s sword yet.
“You,” Blacksilver grunted, recalling Merendil befriending him and buying him drinks in a tavern. Drinks he was now certain—as much as this haze drifting through his head would let him be certain about anything—had been drugged. He drew his sword to give this Merendil pup what he deserved.
Bravran sprang back, plucking forth a dagger from within his jacket, and called, “Help!”
The three Purple Dragons exchanged weary looks and strode forward, War Wizard Hallowhar right behind them. Blacksilver stalked after the courtier, who was backing away, his face frightened and pale.
“Blacksilver!” Telsword Briarhult barked. “Sheathe steel, or face arrest!”
Rellond Blacksilver lurched around to face the Dragons, growling in anger.
“Enough, Blacksilver,” the young mage said crisply, the self-important arrogance in her tone making the Dragons wince—and Rellond Blacksilver charge, sword sweeping up to hack and hew.
“Still no Florin,” Jhessail said, clawing open yet another door. Darkness behind it; the silent dead darkness that meant a room that held no life.
“Not even a pinch of Florin here, either,” Semoor said, letting his door swing shut. “Have you found any, Doust? Even a little piece?”
“Enough sour jesting, Wolftooth,” Islif growled, from ahead. She was tirelessly plucking open doors and peering at the rooms beyond, while muttering more and more angrily about how much time was passing.
Doust considered a thought, and then shook his head and kept silent, judging it an inauspicious moment to remind Islif that each passing breath brought every mortal a breath nearer their last, and the inevitable waiting grave.
With the unspoken ease of long experience, the three Dragons drew their swords and spread out, to face the enraged noble with a wall
of parrying war-steel. They didn’t expect War Wizard Hallowhar, having goaded Blacksilver into this, to do anything useful about dealing with him—wherefore they weren’t disappointed.
As the fray of furiously clashing steel began, Tarlauma Hallowhar stood staring thoughtfully past it at the courtier, who had backed well away and was now sheathing his dagger inside his jacket, looking up at her rather guiltily as he did so.
Tarlauma frowned. Many courtiers openly bore small belt-knives, and were allowed to do so, but a dagger like that? Carried in concealment?
Shaking her head, she spread her hands and carefully started to cast a spell on the distant man, who had started to turn away. When he saw what she was doing, his eyes blazed—and then he launched himself down the passage at her, running hard.
Telsword Briarhult calmly stepped back and away from his parrying of Blacksilver, to stand between the war wizard and this onrushing madwits of a courtier, his sword raised and ready.
War Wizard Hallowhar finished her spell—a mindwalk, aimed at this courtier with the knife—and stared into the man’s eyes to begin her plunge into his mind.
He seemed wild with terror, almost frothing as he sprinted down the passage, right at Briarhult’s waiting blade. At the last moment he plucked and threw something else from within his jacket—a little cloth finger-bag, thongs dancing wide open the way he’d just pulled them—right into the Purple Dragon’s face.
It burst on the bridge of Briarhult’s nose, flooding the air with a cloud of black dust that had the familiar acrid smell of darkrun pepper.
Briarhult slashed blindly at empty air. The courtier flung himself aside, shoulders bouncing hard off the passage wall, and then stepped forward in the lee of the swinging sword and slashed at Briarhult’s face, just catching his cheek.
Telsword Chorn Briarhult slumped bonelessly to the floor in an instant.
War Wizard Hallowhar gaped in astonishment at what she had just started to perceive of Bravran Merendil’s racing thoughts: treason, on the part of this heir of an exiled noble house, with his mother smiling behind him …
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