by Ed Greenwood
The tersept faltered again, and his undoing was more serious this time. Hawkril and Tshamarra were both visibly struggling to restrain mirth- though Stornbridge had no way of knowing that it was not because of his ridiculous words, but due to the reactions to them of Coinmaster Eirevaur (droll, eye-rolling impassivity) and Seneschal Urbrindur (openmouDied disbelief, broken by silent winces of disgust).
Stornbridge visibly weighed the consequences of reacting with anger to the two miscreant guests, and finally asked, in a strained voice that held mingled coldness, stiffness, and diffidence, "Is there, ah, some problem with my sentiments I should know about? Or some affliction or condition befalling you, perhaps?"
"Horns of the Lady," Undercook Maelree whispered, from her hard-won perch at a high gallery window, "but this is better than a six-bard show!"
Mistress of the Pantry Klaedra chuckled, and then nudged Maelree. "Ssshh. Musn't miss a word!"
They grinned at each other and leaned toward the sill, made bolder by all the tumult below.
"Magic would be the problem," Embra told the tersept briskly. "Spying-spells have just reached into this room!"
"Wha-? But who? Why? Stornbridge seemed genuinely astonished.
"To hear what we decide, obviously," Craer replied, in tones that unmistakably added the words "you idiot" to the end of his sentence.
Tshamarra and Blackgult both shot puzzled looks at Embra. "Able to pierce my shielding and elude your probings for the same reason," she told them tersely. "A reaching not directly to us, but rather to observe through the eyes and ears of someone in this room… the servant standing behind Coinmaster Eirevaur."
Craer promptly vaulted from his seat up onto the table, touching down once amid the platters, and sprang from it at the chamber knave. Servants ran forward to meet and stop him-all but the one he was seeking, who whirled around and fled through an archway. The procurer sprinted in hot pursuit.
"Be careful, Craer!" Tshamarra called, rising.
With a triumphant snarl, Lornsar Ryethrel struck aside the hovering blade at his throat and clawed at the hilt of his sword, eyes fairly flaming as he glared across the table at Blackgult.
The Golden Griffon never moved. The flying needle, however, did-and Lornsar Ryethrel found himself staring at its point, perhaps an inch away from his left eyeball.
"Unless you'd prefer to lose your right eye first?" Tshamarra Talasorn inquired sweetly.
The lornsar let go of his sword and sank back down into his chair in careful silence, the hovering blade moving smoothly with him.
"I see Champion Pheldane has almost recovered-so long as he sits still and puts no weight on his leg," Embra said, every inch the noble hostess. "Perhaps he could reflect on the ease with which I could enspell him to endlessly enjoy the sensations he felt at the moment when he injured his knee… and so remain quiet."
"Graul you, you bitch" Pheldane snarled. "You and all your bebolten spells!" He reached furiously for his goblet-but the movement was sudden enough to send fresh agonies shooting up his leg. He hunched over, seedling and whimpering, sweat dripping from his contorted face.
"Alternatively," the Lady Silvertree announced, "I could deaden your pain, Champion, though the actual injury would remain. Shall I?"
"Sargh upon you, woman! Sargh right in your grinning face!" Pheldane spat. Without warning or any change of expression Blackgult swung his arm in a great roundhouse blow that smashed into the warrior's face, leaving him reeling. His body promptly twisted and jumped in spellspun pain.
The lornsar and chamber knaves tensed as one, but Seneschal Urbrindur snapped, "Steady! He more than deserved that. Peace be upon this table!"
The Lady of Jewels gave Urbrindur a warm and gracious smile. "My thanks, Seneschal. 'Tis such a pleasure to hear sense spoken among all this fury and bluster. I, too, would fain enjoy a civilized meal among men who reason and debate to wise ends, rather than snarling and showing teeth like dogs warring over a bone."
The Tersept of Stornbridge laughed again. It sounded no more genuine-and was no better received-than his previous efforts at mirth, but he soldiered on into converse once more, determined to salvage something from this disaster of a day. "Why, let us forthwith debate matters of Aglirta, then! As tersept, for example, I feel a constant shortage of coins constraining me from hiring and equipping men enough to patrol the Storn lands as diligently as I would wish. Were the reinstituted crown taxes lower, I could hire more men, and keep the King's law better. Fewer brigands would steal and fewer outlander merchants avoid paying the taxes they should. The royal coffers would be as full, whilst all benefited from greater peace and justice."
Embra nodded. "Every baron and tersept feels so, and most let us know it. Yet we've only to look back over these last ten seasons to know what happens when every ruler, large and small, is free to buy armsmen. War over every little dispute and disagreement-with crops ruined, much blood spilt, trade trammeled, no peace and safety on the roads, no justice for all, and in the end death for almost every baron and tersept, no matter how respected or wise they might be. Remember the Crow of Cardassa."
Lord Stornbridge signaled for his goblet to be refilled. "But Lady, we have a king now; surely such bloody days are behind us! Could-"
"We had a king then,'" the Lady Silvertree reminded him. "My point stands. Whoever sits the River Throne looks up and down the Vale and sees many keeps-such as this one-full of cortahars and armaragors, each with its own ruler commanding their blades thus and so. If we give tax relief to those who hire more swords, what end can there be but more war? Lord Stornbridge, do you hire more cooks and not eat?"
The tersept looked as if he wanted to snarl something angry for a moment, and then his face fell back into anxious uncertainty. "I-I-Lady, you must realize I meant no dispute with the King's policy. I merely-"
"Of course." Embra lifted her untouched goblet to him. "I quite understand. I was merely demonstrating how Flowfoam must regard matters from other sides, when they can see the desires of all. 'Tis when we cannot hear, and thus not know, of local disputes or the wants and needs of Vale folk that we can't hope to make the right decrees."
"So you're saying you overdukes make decisions for the King, is that it?" Those harsh words belonged to Seneschal Urbrindur. "Or do you mean a little cabal of the wizards you've been gathering to Flowfoam so diligently these last few months? Or senior barons, like you and Blackgult here?"
"My, my," the Golden Griffon told the platter in front of him, "but I do so enjoy civilized discussions. Seneschal, I find your ignorance amusing. You seem to truly believe that senior barons-or a handful of wizards, for that matter-could actually agree on anything!"
Unexpectedly, the Coinmaster chuckled. After a moment of staring at him in startlement, Tersept Stornbridge joined in. Hawkril nodded approvingly, and noticed as he did so that smiles flickered across the faces of several chamber knaves.
The seneschal didn't bother to look annoyed. He merely waited for the ripple of mirth to the and said, "Yet we have peace-of sorts-in Aglirta right now because of such agreement, however reached. We also know King Raulin Castlecloaks is the son of a bard, a young lad of no lands nor coins, without influence or armsmen to his name to claim anything… least of all the River Throne. We also know that some folk reached agreement to crown him-or at least not to sword him down if he seized the crown for himself and proclaimed himself King-and that some folk, visibly including you overdukes, support him on that throne, or he'd not still be there. Why choose a boy? Might it be because he's easily biddable, so you can shape Aglirta as you see fit?"
Embra opened her mouth to speak, looking less than pleased, but Blackgult quelled her with a lifted finger and replied calmly, "That's indeed the most obvious explanation, soon occurring to anyone who considers such things. Had you been in the Throne Chamber at the right times, to see and hear for yourself, however, you'd know that I could easily have passed from regent to King-and was both urged and expected to do so, by some- and that Haw
kril, here, was also asked to take the crown."
The seneschal spread his hands. "Yet we only have your word for that, my lord. We were not there-nor were the majority of rulers and officers, up and down the Vale. Most barons and tersepts, in fact, were appointed by Kelgrael or by you as regent or by King Castlecloaks, and so owe lands, coins, and power to Flowfoam, with very recent reminders of how suddenly and fatally such gifts can be taken away. Again, we bow the more easily to your bidding… those who would not are those now dead."
Blackgult smiled. "So you'd have us change the way of the world, Urbrindur? Tell the Three how to order things, differently than they've done these past dozen centuries, at least?"
"The Serpent-priests tried to do just that," Coinmaster Eirevaur said unexpectedly. "Though they failed as completely and as spectacularly as did Bloodblade or any baron."
The Golden Griffon nodded. "Mountainsides grow no softer if you scream at them-or hurl yourself against them a score of times or more. I've learned just one thing down the years about trying to make large changes in Darsar around us: All such attempts end up costing the lives of many."
Lornsar Ryethrel regarded him sourly across the table. "So what're you saying to us, Overduke Blackgult? That all Aglirta should accept one large change, the ascension of the boy king, and another: his new way of doing things… because any third large change would bring much bloodshed? That seems to me no more nor less than the sort of menace that barons have always spoken to us: I can do what I like, because I have the swords to back me, but if you dare try anything, you'll be the irresponsible butcher who brings ruin to all Aglirta. I'm not defying King Castlecloaks, nor belittling your mission or authority… I'm merely pointing out that to many of us, such pretty talk seems to veil the same old spiked gauntlet."
Blackgult smiled. "So it does, Ryethrel. So it does. In the end, for all our high-minded schemes, it always comes down to who can whelm the greatest force, does it not? I wish things were otherwise, but they're not." He glanced at the hunched-over Tersept's Champion. "Are they, Pheldane?"
"Graul you like a blinded boar, Blackgult," the champion gasped, not looking up. "Graul you and roast you in your own armor, you whoreson wolf!"
Blackgult smiled. "My fond love for you grows greater too, Pheldane."
"Lord Blackgult!" The Tersept of Stornbridge's voice was almost a whine, his pleading open. "Lady Silvertree! Harsh words and rough handling have you entertained since arriving here in fair Stornbridge, and I humbly beg your pardon for that when there can be no real pardon… But tell me: Do you deem us enemies of the crown for speaking with candor? Are we doomed, merely for our honesty?"
"No, Tersept, you are not," Embra told him quietly. "We value the truth, and knowing what folk really feel, over all the empty fawning and false smiles the Vale can give us. Do you think your views surprise us?"
Stombridge regarded her silently, and then slowly shook his head. The Lady of Jewels gave him a faint smile-and then, as a flicker of movement from above caught her eye, she called on the Dwaer, the air sang and shimmered, and the few bowmen on the balconies who'd begun to stealthily reach for blades or quivers fell back to sleep again, arms dangling.
With one spell barely cast, Embra called on her Stone for another, bringing another probing spell down on platters all over the table. Faint sparkling radiances winked and crawled across the food. She put one ladylike finger into some nearby gravy, eyes narrowed, and then carefully licked it and turned her magic on herself.
"What is it?" Lord Stombridge asked, as if he could not very well guess what she was doing. "What's wrong, Lady Overduke?"
"Many things, Lord," Embra told him, lifting grave eyes to his as she put another gravy-coated finger in her mouth. "Wherefore none of us can be too careful." Sucking her finger clean, she added approvingly, "Your kitchens are good. My thanks."
"Yesss," Undercook Maelree said fiercely, cramming a knuckle into her mouth to quell the shriek of delight she felt rising within her. "She's done it! 'Tis in her!"
"Quiet, now," the Mistress of the Pantry murmured beside her-but it was a gloating murmur. "We mustn't warn our overduchal heroes they've ingested the plague until they've all tasted it."
The Undercook nodded, and drew back a little from the high gallery window. In the shadows the two women exchanged soft, menacing smiles. "A good day for the Serpent," Maelree breaDied, her fingers digging into Klaedra's shoulders with excited, bruising force.
The Mistress of the Pantry did not tear free of the painful grip and strike Maelree across the face for daring to touch her person-and that in itself was a measure of how delighted she was.
6
Madness and a Timely Flagon
Though I do what lovely ladies say, this will get me killed some day,' " Craer Delnbone sang softly and mockingly as he plunged down an unfamiliar passage, the groans of the guard he'd just kicked in the crotch fading behind him.
Bebolt that overenthusiastic cortahar, anyway! He'd delayed Craer just long enough to let the chamber knave he was chasing whirl into this side passage, and through one of these nigh-dozen doors. At least the fool had slammed it, marking his trail that much. Graul and bebolt all!
"Now, if I was a foolishly avid and attentive guard, I'd wait about here…" Craer murmured, springing high to catch hold of an old torch-bracket as he came to a corner. He grasped it for just the instant he needed to swing himself high and hard-
Yes! A blade slashed at where his face and throat should have been, the cortahar behind it snarling in cruel exultation. That snarl became a growl of surprise as Craer flashed past overhead, kicked off the far wall, and flung himself back in a twisting turn that brought his hand down hard on the guard's neck.
The cortahar grunted in pain-a grunt that rose into a whistle of alarm as Craer's waxed cord slapped across his throat. The procurer caught the garotte's far end, deftly pulled and jerked-and the gurgling, strangling guard's head was driven into the passage wall.
The man reeled, shaking his head and clawing at the air rather dazedly, so Craer bounced as he landed, bounding high to slam the cortahar's head into the wall once more.
This time the guard only managed to pull his face off the stone far enough to blink-before he went down in a limp, untidy heap.
"No, don't thank me," Craer told the senseless cortahar, retrieving his garotte. 'Just enjoy your slumber. The Three know if you deserve it. Me, I just know what I deserve."
He ran on, sprinting hard but almost soundlessly in his soft leather boots. Their pointed toes were hard and sharp-sporting little crescentiform knife blades of which Craer, their maker, was quite proud-but the soles were as soft and supple as a high lady's boudoir slippers.
Behind any of these doors, Three take him, the chamber knave could be hiding. Well, a procurer's life wasn't for the peaceloving…
Craer snatched at the latch of the first door, but it wouldn't budge. He shook it, whirling away without pause to another door a pace farther on and across the passage. The first door yielded not a whit, and no sound of alarm came from beyond it-but the second door opened.
Dust, darkness, and linens: a closet. Craer snapped his garotte into the gloom like a whip, encountering nothing. The moment he could see it was empty of cowering chamber knaves, he rebounded across the passage again to the third door.
This one crashed open to reveal three startled needle-wielding maids bent over a sewing frame. They screamed in unison, so Craer gave them a rakish grin, slammed the door on them, and sprang to the fourth door.
It was bolted, and shuddered under his attack. From behind it came a feminine gasp of alarm and a low, furious man's voice: "Notjyrf, Thalas! You promised this room until candletrimming, graul you!"
Craer grinned and flung himself at the fifth door. It opened-and he hurled himself to the floor as something fanged and hissing spun right at him!
His plunge took him to the very toes of his attacker, so he snapped his garotte around handy ankles, jerked, and then shoved.
The man cursed, flailed his arms for balance, and caught at someone else to keep from falling. By then Craer was up the man's legs and stabbing hard with one of his handy knives.
The Serpent-priest shrieked and snatched out his own dagger-only to really scream and come to a shuddering, quivering halt, as Craer's knife transfixed his other hand. The dagger clattered to the floor.
Craer twisted his blade, sending the priest to his knees in a sobbing howl. With his free hand the procurer grabbed the throat of the other man: the chamber knave he'd been chasing.
"Is this the man who cast the spell on you?" Craer hissed, shaking his knife so the priest's bleeding hand was dragged cruelly through the air, trailing its weeping owner. "Aye?"
"Y-yes," the servant choked, trying to shrink back through a wall to get away from the procurer… and failing miserably.
"You know him?" Craer snapped, his hand tightening.
"N-no, Lord, truly! H-he only arrived… castle… two days ago. I don't even know his name!"
Craer shoved the chamber knave, sending the man stumbling in search of balance. The procurer used that time to pluck up the priest's fallen dagger-a wavy blade with an open-jawed fanged serpent-pommel-and menace the servant with it, to make sure the man had no weapon and no chance to draw it if he did.
The knave shrank back, paling. "N-no! Mercy! 'Tis poisoned!"
Craer shook his own knife to keep the pain-wracked priest helpless, and held the snake-dagger up to the light. A stain that should not have been there-a deep greenish-purple distincdy different from blood, fresh or old-covered its keen point.
Craer thrust it at the chamber knave. As the servant screamed and tried to claw his way up the wall away from it, Craer reversed it and brought the rearing serpent-head down hard on a cringing skull. The servant collapsed without a sound, blood trickling from his nose.