At least three different Sembian cabals sought the same ends but, hopefully, were as of yet unaware of his presence. So, too, were some rather foolishly over-ambitious merchants of Westgate, and of course the Shadovar.
If this ignorance was genuine and continued long enough, these other players might unwittingly help make this Council of the Dragon a blood-drenched disaster. If he managed matters properly, they would remain ignorant of Manshoon for a tenday or more… which should be time enough.
The upheaval of violence and a failed Council would of course afford a chance to move his pawns higher in the court hierarchy, and “his” nobles into favor.
Yet there was a problem.
And why not? There was always a problem. Usually a host of them.
This particular problem was rooted in Elminster’s meddling, of course. One last gift from his hated foe.
With Stormserpent’s treason exposed and most of that expendable lordling’s callow young noble allies wounded and abed-and so unable to attend the Council-Emperor-to-be Manshoon lacked time to reach and influence replacements for his cause, new nobles he could manipulate into furthering his schemes at the Council and thereafter.
The ghostly Princess Alusair had hounded him out of the palace, but faded rapidly once outside its walls, so he’d eluded her and set about founding another base nearby in Suzail. Enter handy Sraunter…
He hadn’t planned to awaken Fentable and Mreldrake as his agents again so soon after withdrawing from their minds, and doing so was a trifle clumsy, but changed circumstances forced new strategies-and they were the most efficient agents he could bring to bear.
Hence this little meeting.
“For the good of the realm,” he purred, “the Council must be delayed. By a day, no more.”
Fentable and Mreldrake relaxed visibly. The frowns didn’t leave their faces-achieving even a day’s delay would entail much work and unpleasantness-but it was far less perilous than some of the things they’d obviously been fearing he would say, and a postponed Council did have one or two advantages…
“That is… good,” Fentable said cautiously. “The last Dragon reports have six or seven lords still on the road, journeying to Suzail. They might well not have arrived in time, and that in itself might have done grave harm to peace among the nobility.”
Mreldrake looked dubious. “At the cost of peace among those already here, who are restless enough. With another day and night to work mischief, what with all the drinking, the harbored feuds, and the armed bullyblades they’ve all brought with them…”
Manshoon shrugged. “So much was on your platter already.”
Sraunter cleared his throat. The other three all looked at him.
He stared back, flustered by the sudden attention, and then stammered, “B-but delay the Council how?”
“Well, as to that,” Manshoon said, “I have a little plan.”
That made it his turn to be stared at.
He smiled back, not discomfited in the slightest. “In fact,” he purred, “it’s why I arranged this little meeting. You three will cause the Council of the Dragon to begin a day late-though fear not, no one outside this room will know who worked the delay. If, that is, you play your parts according to my instructions.”
He leaned back in his chair. “If any of you get, ah, creative, on the other hand, the consequences could well be disastrous. Yet, we’ve worked well together in the past. I know none of you remember that, but then, that’s the beauty of it. If the days ahead go smoothly, I’ll see that you forget all about them-and need never fear a prying Highknight or wizard of war tricking something out of your mind. You’ll be able to-in all innocence-swear you know nothing at all about it. Because, you see, you won’t.”
He smiled, laced his fingertips together, and sent his brightest smile around the table, giving them time to shiver and then recover themselves.
Informed slaves are obedient slaves…
Lord Arclath Delcastle came awake very suddenly, alert and tense, and far from his usual slow, languid surfacing amid warmth and silky, soft bedsheets. He had a feeling that he was rousing at his customary time, near dawn. His skylight was nowhere to be seen, though, and his face was quite cold. He felt badly cured fur against his cheek, and from around him came the smells of wood smoke and damp duskwood and And someone bare and warm and shapely was pressed against him, with her arms around him.
“R-rune?” he whispered, his eyes flying open.
He found himself staring into the face of his beloved. Amarune was holding him as they lay on their sides, legs entwined and arms around each other, noses almost touching. Her eyes were closed and stayed that way, her breathing soft, slow, and regular. Asleep.
Arclath remembered everything then, and hastily twisted up onto one elbow to look around the cabin. The brazier was out, but the hearth was lit, the teapot sitting atop the soot-blackened grate. He saw no sign of Storm.
Good. For the moment, at least, he and Rune were alone. He could speak freely.
He kissed her, gently but insistently. Her eyes snapped open; she’d obviously been feigning slumber.
“Mmmm?” she purred.
“Ah, Rune,” he whispered, “I-ah-love you very much and want to talk to you. Right now. While it’s just the two of us.”
“Ah,” Amarune told him with an impish smile, in the gruff tones of Elminster. “Ye young lordlings don’t waste your chances, do ye? Well enough, because I want to talk to ye, too. So, start spouting words, lad. ’Tis a new day, but growing older fast!”
Arclath tensed but managed to quell his urge to thrust the warm and curvaceous body away from him.
“Ah-uh-damn you, wizard! Can’t I talk to my Rune without you stepping between us?”
“Lad,” the wizard’s growl answered him, Amarune’s eyes fixed on him, “ye can. Hopefully-with but a very few exceptions-ye will. Ye see, I’ll be using thy lass as little as possible and seeking a suitable replacement to ride. Ye have my word on that.”
“Your word?” Arclath said bitterly. “And what is that worth? My own has been… somewhat devalued.”
“Lad, I like this as little as ye do, and thy lady’s not exactly blissful about it, either. She’s my descendant, mind, and I want her unhurt in body and mind, so I’ll try to take very good care of her. I say ‘unhurt’ because she is, after all, in here with me and aware of everything. That I have violated her as few have been violated, I grant. I’ve tried to apologize for what there can be no proper apology for, and failed, but she’s seen my need and reasons in my thoughts and accepts them. She’ll tell ye so, though ye’re just going to have to accept her word when she tells ye it’s her speaking and not me. If ye do not, I see her soon bidding ye begone, noble name and wealth or not. Now, can there be peace between us?”
Arclath stared thoughtfully into the eyes of the mask dancer so close to his. The woman he’d come to love, so swiftly and deeply that he was still a little disbelieving. Had the wizard used a little love magic? But no, he’d been nowhere around when… or had he?
Shards and stars, did any of that matter? He did love his Rune, more than he’d ever loved anyone before, and-and what could he do to thwart this Old Mage, anyhail?
Nothing. Nothing at all, but be there for his Amarune and hope she won clear of Elminster soon, unharmed. Or as unscathed as possible.
Which meant making common cause with the Sage of Shadowdale was the only prudent thing to do.
“Aye,” he said aloud, awkwardly. “There can be. Peace between us, I mean.”
Amarune’s slender-fingered hand clasped his as firmly as any warrior’s, and a bright smile spread across her face.
“Good, glad that’s done,” El growled then, causing her to roll away and fling back the furs. “Rune’s bladder is bursting!”
Understeward Corleth Fentable was in none-too-pleasant a mood, but even if the fearful shadow of Lord Manshoon hadn’t loomed everpresent in his thoughts, Fentable’s displeasure so early in the morning was hardly surprising.