The page bowed and ran off toward the palace. Of course, thought Vangerdahast, and looked up and down the Hall of Honor to see if he was being observed. The page dwindled into the distance and turned down the east stair, there was no one else in sight. The wizard nodded in satisfaction, laid his hand on a particular inscription on the wall, and spoke a certain word. The block seemed unchanged, but his fingers sank into it as if it no longer existed. He reached in, plucked a certain ring, a pendant, and an armlet from the small cloth bag that he knew would be there, and drew them forth, speaking another word that made the stone solid again.
Donning the three items, he resumed his walk, heading not for Gemstars Hall any longer but for the palace and the soaring hearths of Flamedance Hall. The flames would be illusory during weather this warm, but their endless leapings were fascinating to watch nonetheless. It would be best to get this over with, now that he was protected against poisons, normal missiles, steel weapons of all sorts, and the effects of hostile gases. It would be most indecently hasty to try to strike down the Royal Magician of all Cormyr, leaving the land mageless once more, but then, these ambitious young nobles seemed to care not a whit for the safety of the realm nor for rules, courtesies, and conventions. Truly a wonderful future lay ahead for the kingdom.
Two belarjacks nodded to him respectfully at the threshold of Flamedance Hall and drew the doors wide. The old wizard strode in calmly to find only one figure waiting for him, with a decanter and two glasses. Vangerdahast smiled slightly as he heard the doors close softly behind him, and walked steadily forward.
“So this day finds you desirous of converse with the wise old mage of Cormyr, does it?” he asked cheerfully. “Well, then, speak! I bring both time and interest to hear you out.”
Those piercing brown eyes locked with his, and the thin lips beneath the thinner mustache twisted slightly. “That is convenient, lord wizard, for I find I have matters of crucial import to the future of the realm to discuss with you.”
Vangerdahast stopped a few paces away from the young noble and raised both of his bushy brows. “How so? A man who’s spent so much of his time in recent years hunting boar and deer carries matters of crucial import about with him-and undiscussed?”
Aunadar poured himself a glass from the decanter, amber and sparkling-old, fine flamekiss, by the looks of it-and said almost wearily, “Whatever you may think of me, Lord Vangerdahast, I am no longer a boy but a man-moreover, one affianced to the future Queen of Cormyr. I have the ear of the crown princess and eyes quite able to see the future ahead of us all. Pray do me the courtesy of dispensing with the old-wise-one-patronizing-the-self-important-puppy act. It demeans you more than it does me.”
“Speak, then,” Vangerdahast said calmly, shaping something in the air behind him with one hand.
Aunadar laid a hand on the hilt of the court rapier he wore. “Casting spells when discussing affairs of state is a dangerously bold breach of courtesy,” he said, gliding a step forward.
Vangerdahast finished his gesturing and sat down calmly on the empty air, as if reclining in a comfortable chair. He made a flippant gesture of dismissal with his fingertips and said, “Lad, casting spells is what wizards do. If you don’t like being around castings, don’t summon wizards into your presence as if they were your servants. And of the two of us here, I shall be the judge of what court courtesy is or may be. All these veiled threats and posturings demean you more than they do me, to borrow a much-overused phrase.”
Aunadar’s mouth tightened, but he let go of his sword. Facing the wizard, he struck a pose-probably unconsciously, the wizard judged, these well-muscled noble sons with their sleek good looks started doing such things the moment they noticed that the world held women-and said, “I’d like to dispense with all the fencing between us for an hour or so.”
Vangerdahast raised an eyebrow and gestured at him to continue at his pleasure, the wizard would attend to his words. Aunadar raised a matching brow of his own, drew a deep breath, and said, “We are prepared to accept you as regent of the realm if-and only if-you agree to certain conditions.”
“‘We’? Are you speaking for the princess? Surely not, without her writ or herald! Or are you speaking for your father and your older brothers, Faern and Dlothtar? Or the entire House of Bleth?”
Aunadar’s mouth tightened again. “I speak for myself and for the nobles, both within my family and without, who stand with me on this point. Rest assured that I can muster to support me more nobles of Cormyr than any other person in the realm, including, my lord, yourself. Do you want to hear my conditions, or shall I inform them that you are a mad old tyrant best removed from Faerun forever?”
Vangerdahast smiled. The youth spoke of “my” conditions, not “our” conditions, and failed to notice the slip. The wizard nodded. “I do indeed wish to hear them. Perhaps we can deal together for the continued good governance of the realm.”
“Brantarra? We’re here!”
The small disturbance of whirling lights and roilings of the air in front of the young noble promptly grew two burning eyes, then sighed. They were within the palace itself, in one of the innumerable hiding holes and hidden passages. This one had seen only a few booted feet disturb the dust.
The spectral appearance sighed again, a soft, feminine sigh. It seemed to say, Were all the nobles of Cormyr as excited as young boys, creeping around and whispering? Was this all she had to work with?
“That is good,” the burning eyes said instead. At the sound of her voice, the five men in their gaudy court dress tensed, drawn swords glittering in their hands. All gulped and drew in breaths.
The woman who was using the name Brantarra went on. “Are you ready to forge a glorious future for Cormyr and for yourselves?”
The boldest of the nobles-Ensrin Emmarask, the one she’d first contacted-took a nervous step nearer her mystic portal and stammered, “Y-Yes, lady, we are.”
“Then hold out your cloak under my eyes-well below them!”
Tentatively Ensrin did as he was bade, and the whirling lights so close above him spat out something.
He flinched but managed to catch it in his cloak. It rolled over once, twice, and stopped: a ruby as large as his thumb. The radiance pulsed again, and another stone joined the first. Three more joined it before the voice said, “One for each of you, to start with. Earn them now.”
“How, Lady Brantarra?”
“Go to the shrines just established in the palace, where Crown Princess Tanalasta worships. She will be on her way there shortly to kneel in prayer. Slay her.”
Someone gasped, and someone else swallowed noisily. The room was suddenly full of nervous shiftings and the flashings of moving blades.
Ensrin then did the bravest thing he’d every essayed in his young life. “Kill the crown princess?” he asked.
“Yes-and bring away her head with you, to hide in the place where first we met. Strike now, the princess must die this morn. It’s best if your attack comes at the altar of Tymora, when the princess is kneeling, far from guards or alarm gongs. Only one priestess should be in attendance. If you tarry, be warned that the chamber consecrated to Tyr is staffed by several heavily armed Warpriests of Justice.”
Ensrin swallowed, raised his blade in salute, and quivered in excitement. “Lady, it shall be done!”
“Aye,” the others echoed in a ragged chorus. The eyes of fire looked around at them all, and the voice of Brantarra said, “Good. Do this, and the wealth I promised is yours. You’ll never have to lift swords-or anything else-again. Go!”
Ensrin nodded sharply and drew a black silken mask from a belt pouch. As he drew it on, the others followed suit, and the little sphere of whirling lights sighed again and faded away.
Five masked men boiled out of the room and hurried along darkened back passageways of the palace. It was too bad for the lone Purple Dragon who happened to round a corner in front of them. Swords plunged into his face and throat without hesitation, and he fell against the wall and then slid to the floor without making more noise than a gurgle. Dealing death, it seemed, was very easy.