The Steel Princess, on the other hand, was a known quantity. She was a warrior who could lead Cormyr and keep it strong even if all of her kin-especially one old, white-haired, wheezing warrior who happened to wear a crown on his head-were to fall. She was a blade no kingdom should throw away, even if she hadn’t been his favorite daughter.
More than that, to stride into the palace now would be to rob Tanalasta of any chance for a victory at court, or increased confidence, or a reputation for anything in the eyes of anyone, or learning anything from what had befallen-all would be swept away as “the little girl mishandling the throne ere her father returned.”
It hadn’t been such a hard decision after all.
“Make ready, men,” he called, making sure Alusair would hear his words through their rings. “We go north as swiftly as we can, to join the force under the Steel Princess. No battle cries, now, and no noise. The dragons seem to be bad this year.”
He wasn’t sure who groaned more grimly at that, the men around him, or Alusair in her desperation, standing wearily on a hilltop leaning on a blade black with drying orc blood.
23
They were sitting on the veranda of the grand Crownsilver estate, three of them-Maniol Crownsilver himself, Duke Kastar Pursenose, and the Lady of Pearls, Bridgette Alamber-drinking merlot and staring out over the rolling grounds of the estate. The lands looked as though a rare freeze had drifted in from the north and overstayed the tolerance of its hosts. The pear orchards had withered to neat rows of twisted black skeletons, the much-vaunted flock of Silver-marsh sheep lay bloated and huffing in their brown pasture, and the vineyard had vanished beneath a snowy blanket of white mold.
“A pity about the vineyard, Manny,” said Lady Alamber, draining the last red drops from her glass. “There simply is no equal for the Silverhill merlot. I shall miss it, I’m afraid.”
“We still have a barrel or a hundred in the cellar.” Maniol drained the last of the ewer’s contents into Lady Alamber’s glass and set the empty container on the table edge, where an anonymous hand in a white glove took it away to be refilled. “I’ll have a cask sent over for you.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Not at all,” said Maniol. “All I ask is that you keep it away from your magic.”
“You may rest assured,” said Lady Alamber. “It would be a pity to have such a fine vintage spoiled by one of these ghazneth things. Perhaps I’ll even accept the princess’s offer and send my magic to the castle for safekeeping.”
The mockery in her voice drew a sardonic chuckle from both men, and the anonymous hand returned the ewer to the table. Duke Pursenose offered his glass to Maniol to be refilled.
“Tell me, what are we going to do about this Goldsword business?” he asked.
“Do?” Maniol poured for the duke. “The same thing we always do, of course-wait until the matter sorts itself out.”
“Really, I don’t know what the princess could have been thinking,” said Lady Alamber. “It’s bad enough to sleep with a petty noble, but to marry him?”
“And a Cormaeril at that,” agreed Maniol. “Was she trying to make allies for Goldsword?”
“Still, there are those who feel she showed nerve, and who admire her candor,” said Pursenose. “With the setbacks in the north, they say she has been showing leadership.”
Maniol nodded and poured for himself. “The Hardcastles and Rallyhorns-and the Wyvernspurs, as well… Now that they have the old Cormaeril estates, they’ve become a family to be dealt with.”
“Precisely the point.” Lady Alamber drained her glass again. “On the one hand, she’s produced an heir.” She held one hand out and lowered it dramatically. “On the other hand-it’s a Cormaeril.” She held out the other hand and lowered it. “There’s no telling who’s going to win this thing.”
“That is hardly important, my dear,” Maniol said, refilling her glass. “What is important is that we don’t lose in it.”
“In normal times, yes,” said Pursenose, “but with these dreadful ghazneths running about tearing the place up and orcs and goblins loose to the north… it’s bad for the ledgers, and it could get worse. It might be less expensive if we simply choose a side.”
Maniol shook his head vigorously. “And what if we were to choose the wrong side? You saw what Azoun did to the Bleths and Cormaerils after the Abraxus Affair. I doubt the Sembians would be any more gracious if we were to side with Tanalasta against them.” He took a long pull from his glass, then made a sour face. “I say, the mold must have gotten to this cask.”
Pursenose had already noticed the same thing, but had not wanted to insult his host by complaining. “There does seem to be a touch of vinegar to it,” he said politely. “But it seems to me we’re overlooking the ghazneths in all this. Aren’t they the real enemy? If we let things go on like this, we’ll all lose our crops this year.”
“Which will only drive the price of our stores that much higher.” Maniol’s sly smile was tainted by a sudden flushing of the brow. “Nobody ever said it was easy to be a noble.” He grimaced at a sudden burning down in his belly, but managed to keep a polite smile as he turned to draw Lady Alamber back into the conversation. “Wouldn’t you agree, Bridgette?”
But Lady Alamber was not saying anything. She sat slumped in her chair, mouth agape and red-rimmed eyes staring into the sky. Bloody drool ran from the corner of her mouth and an acidic stench rose from the chair beneath her.
Duke Pursenose hissed in pain and the glass slipped from his hand to shatter against the stone patio. “I say, Maniol,” he gasped, slumping down in his own chair. “This wine does seem a bit… foul.”
Lord Crownsilver was past caring. His head hit the table with a hard thump, and a long, wet rasp gurgled from his mouth. Still gloved in white, the anonymous hand reached over and removed the ewer from the table.
From the King’s Balcony, the Royal Gardens resembled the camp of some vast army settling in for a long siege. It was filled with smoky pillars rising from small campfires, and old sails, waxed tarps, and anything else that could serve as a tent were strung between delicate fruit trees and carefully shaped topiaries. There were people everywhere, gathered together in small, miserable groups, sleeping alone under trees, milling about listlessly looking for lost children and familiar faces. The smell of food, squalor, and aromatic flowerbeds all merged into one, creating a greasy, too-sweet aroma. The cloying smell reminded Tanalasta of an old noblewoman whose nose had grown too accustomed to her own perfume.
“They started arriving last night,” Korvarr explained.
“We told them the park was not for sleeping, but they refused to leave. With the royal palace so close, they said it was the only safe place in Cormyr to sleep.”
“I’d be willing to argue the point with them,” Tanalasta said dryly. “Let me think on the matter for a time. At the moment, I’m more concerned about these assassinations.”
She turned to Sarmon the Spectacular, who sat behind her in a wheeled chair that Alaphondar had designed for him. Though she knew the wizard to be no more than fifty, he looked close to twice that age, with baggy eyes, wrinkled alabaster skin, and hair so thin she could see the liver spots on his scalp.
“You have been looking into this. What are your thoughts?”
“Lord Crownsilver and his guests bring the total number of assassinations this tenday alone to fifteen,” said Sarmon. “You really must have Lord Goldsword arrested before there are more.”
Tanalasta did not turn from the garden. “And we know he is responsible how?”
“By the fact that we aren’t,” said Sarmon. “He’s cutting your support from beneath you.”
“Her support?” asked Owden, standing as always at Tanalasta’s side. “I thought what made these killings strange is that all the victims are neutral.”