The footprints in the dust led to an armoire of tarnished electrum that pulsed with a faint blue glow of guardian magic. Its double doors stood open, revealing a fire-ravaged interior where ruined things had melted and dripped down to puddle on the floor long ago.
The masked mage was peering carefully at a yellowed map. As Dauneth turned to look at it, she rolled it up, thrust it back into her bodice, and announced, “Rightnow we start back. My trap sphere won’t last forever, and the helm will go free once the sphere evaporates.”
Dauneth frowned. “We’re leaving? Didn’t we come here to find something… something to save the life of the king?”
The masked head nodded. “We did and we have,” she said, turning to go. “We came to find if something was missing from this room, and it is. Now we know much more than we did before.”
Dauneth’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “We do? I don’t.”
The masked head turned back to him. “Come,” she said simply and went out the door, the purple sphere moving before her. He shrugged and followed.
The woman in blue reached past him to point and whisper. Her spell made dust swirl up from the floor of the room for a brief instant before it settled again, hiding the marks of their boots.
“The golden bull that struck the king down,” she said crisply as they swung the door closed again, “was an automaton called an abraxus, a constructed creature animated by magic. One such beast appeared in Cormyr in the past and ended up-disabled-in this room. Now it’s missing, and that means-“
“That someone who can get down here is responsible for the king’s condition,” Dauneth said slowly. “Either someone able to work the sort of magic you did to bring us past the guards and barriers, or someone in the palace.” His eyes locked with hers. “Someone in the palace is a traitor.”
“Quite so,” the lips behind the mask said softly. “Which brings us to your more difficult task…”
Chapter 24: Sembians
Year of the Soft Fogs (1188 DR)
King Pryntaler stormed around the campfire, his arms pinwheeling so violently that Jorunhast thought he’d take flight right then and there. “If war is what they want, then war is what they’ll get,” he snarled for the fifth time during this current rant.
“War is not what they want,” the wizard replied calmly. “What they want is Marsember. If they can get it without war, then so much the better.”
The pair stood in the midst of a small encamped band of nobles, clerics, scribes and guards at the narrowest part of Thunder Gap, the traditional boundary between the Land of the Purple Dragon and the Chondathan colonies of Sembia. But now the Sembian cities were colonies no longer, but a nation of merchant cities ruled by expediency and gold rather than kings and wizards. The uplands around the storm-haunted peaks, which had been so much wilderness for so many centuries, were now regularly transversed by merchant caravans.
The Cormyrean group was camped on the near side of the pass, the Sembians in their oversized wagons on the far side. Their mutual meeting ground was at the saddle of the pass, a great field where tents of purple and black had been erected. The intention had been to hearken back to the splendor and power of the elves, but instead of radiant elven pavilions, these meeting tents looked like smoky mountains made of storm clouds.
The activity within the largest tent was as stormy as the color of its canvas. For three days, the king had met with the representatives of the Sembian houses, and for three days, he and Jorunhast had returned to their own fires without a settlement. Each day Pryntaler’s war mutterings grew louder and sharper.
The sticking point was Marsember, of course. A nominally independent city-state on the Cormyrean side of the Thunder Peaks, it had extensive ties, both legal and less so, with Sembia. The more prestigious Marsemban merchant families, craving respectability, favored merging with the Sembian state, while the nobles and the shadier merchants wanted it to remain an open city. The senior nobility, the Marliir family, sought the support, if not the armies and taxes, of the Cormyrean crown.
Jorunhast was supportive of an independent Marsember, at least for the time being. There were many times when the business of the crown needed to be dealt with in the shadows of Marsember rather than braving the bright scrutiny of many noble eyes in the halls of Suzail. A measure of independence was needed for that.
Sembian rule would be worse. An established presence of Sembians on the western side of the Thunder Peaks would be an ever present encouragement for the more adventurous among the merchant families. Once the Sembians had one of their cities on this side of the Thunders, what would keep other cities and towns-such as Arabel, cradle of rebels-from swearing fealty to gold as opposed to the Dragon Throne?
After a number of long talks with the young king, Jorunhast had made the point that Marsember must be protected, and called a parley with the Sembians. Officially they were here to settle the exact border between Cormyr and Sembia, but the question of Marsember’s status overshadowed wilderness boundary decisions. Pryntaler’s argument was simple and straightforward:
An independent Marsember would be good for all sides, and its fate was essentially a decision for the crown of Cormyr, since Marsember stood squarely within Cormyr’s sphere of influence.
And every evening, after a day of talk, they returned to their camp and Pryntaler exploded with ever-growing rage. Now he stalked around the glow of the fire like a caged lion, spitting out his words like venom.
“Gold-fisted, book-smart, thieving, lawyer-loving, scheming merchants!” he bellowed. “How did my ancestors stand to have such worms as their neighbors all these years?”
“They were far neighbors for most of that time,” the wizard explained patiently, “and spent most of the time in frays with the elves and the Dalesmen to the north, and with their own Chondathan masters. Now that they are free of Chondath’s tethers, they seek their own future.”
“A future that includes Cormyrean territory, it seems,” Pryntaler shot back. “Perhaps we should take the battle to them, instead of wasting time on words!”
The other nobles at the fireside raised a cheer, and Jorunhast saw a few of the servants and his own scribes nodding in agreement. He shook his head in amazement.
Pryntaler, son of King Palaghard and the warrior queen Enchara of Esparin, had grown strong and true, the very image of his father. He had his father’s broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He had inherited his mother’s fiery temper, however, and her ability to bring the troops to a blood boil. Which was, of course, exactly what this situation did not need.
Jorunhast sighed deeply. He had grown as well, though most of that had involved an ever-increasing waistline. His shoulders were still broad, and he had slowed the work of time sufficiently to keep his good looks. But next to Pryntaler, the wizard tended to resemble a baker or a contented Lathanderite friar. If Pryntaler got his troops incensed, nothing would stop them short of war. And Jorunhast realized what none of his countrymen seemed to see: In any dispute that went beyond a single battle, Cormyrean steel could not hope to prevail against Sembian gold.
Jorunhast did not entirely blame his liege’s inherited temper for these outbursts. In each of their meetings thus far, the five Sembiaris had behaved like moneylenders approving a loan, as opposed to diplomats meeting a king. Kodlos was their nominal leader, but he had to check with the others before deciding even on breakfast. The vulpine Homfast and vulturelike Lady Threnka were united in their lust to make Marsember Sembian. Old Bennesey was the scholar of the group and seemed to have every treaty, purchase, and chance meeting of the two nations committed to memory. And Jollitha Par sat there and said nothing but watched everything, a spider waiting at the center of his web.