Ignoring him, Myrmeen plucked out the towel that all wise Cormyrean warriors keep strapped inside their breastplates beside the spare dagger, towelled herself dry, and reached for the largest skillet.
"It astonishes me," she observed as she murmured the word he used to ignite whatever she'd left ready in the firebox, and went to the pantry cold-shelf for the crock of hog-fat and the string-sack hanging near it for some onions, "how you managed to keep such a round little belly on you, eating as you did."
"Well, lass," Vangerdahast grunted amiably over his drinking-horn, "I was alone and therefore relaxed. However tardily I thought of victuals and clumsily I prepared them, I could dine at leisure. No stress, see you?"
Myrmeen plucked down one of the kitchen knives she'd sharpened and commenced to do deft murder upon the onions. One thing for the old windbeard's magic: His cantrip made the stove hot in a hurry. She cast a glance at the wood ready at hand, judged it wasn't time to add any yet, and made busy greasing the pan. "How often did you end up groaning your guts out over the sink or yon bucket? Thrice I've scrubbed it and still can't get rid of the sick smell! No stress then, I suppose?"
Vangey sipped, cast a surprised eye at how little remained in his horn, and observed to the low-beamed ceiling, "The trouble with overclever lasses is their tongues. Sharp like swords, and always jabbing jabbing jabbing at a man."
Myrmeen snorted as the first onions hit the pan with a loud hiss and replied, "The trouble with overclever wizards is their hog-headed-stubborn insistence on always being right, which really means the world must do everything their way. Now, if they were really brilliant enough to choose the right way as their way, those tongues of their lasses could get a rest, and there'd be no jab jab jabbery at all!"
Vangerdahast chuckled and brought his booted feet up on the footstool. It had been months since it had been handy to do that with. Someone-Mreen here-must have cleared all those old scrolls off it, taken it out of the corner, and put it ready for him. Thoughtful lass.
He leaned back at ease and toyed with thoughts of what barbed comments he could make next to hear her laugh again and bring another thrust back his way. He hadn't chatted this way for years.
The retired Royal Magician of Cormyr sighed with contentment and drained the last of his amberfire, as the warm smell of frying onions rose around him.
* * * * *
The blind-shield behind him flickered as someone passed through it, and an anxious voice asked quickly, "Huldyl?"
For the briefest of instants, Huldyl Rauthur froze in fear-then clenched his fists, drew in breath, and turned, face serene and eyes widening in unruffled inquiry. "Yes?"
Pheldemar Daunthrae stood in the guardroom, slightly out of breath and sporting the beginnings of what would soon be splendid bruises. He held his rod ready in his hand as if expecting a fight.
Huldyl eyed it then looked up at its bearer. "Some sort of fight?"
"We've lost about eight of the sentinel horrors, as far as I can tell," the older War Wizard reported tersely. "Intruders-at least two, though I saw only one of them. Didn't look like warriors or mages or-or anything except Marsemban merchants, actually. They were carrying some sort of enchanted blast-bombs."
"Bombs?"
"Throw one, hit helmed horror, horror blows apart. Little circular silver disc-things, with runes on them in Thayan or some other Eastern script. No fuse, no trigger words, just throw, hit, and-boom!"
"They got away, these intruders, without leaving any of these, ah, bombs behind?"
"I found one, tried it out, cost us a horror. One of them got stunned by his own blast, I think-I heard the explosions, came looking, found him, and was just bending closer when another one burst out of hiding and ran me over from behind. By the time I had my wits again, the stunned one was gone too."
"Eight sentinels? Gods forfend."
Pheldemar nodded grimly. "Possibly just a foray to damage as many sentinels as possible, but if they'd been carrying sacks of these bomb-things and I hadn't come to see, they might have blasted their way right to Lord Vangerdahast's front door."
Rauthur nodded. "Certainly seems a determined attempt to reach the sanctum. The Highknights must be told."
"Aye. Shall I-?"
"If you would, yes-and have Thaerma take a look at you before you seek rest, just in case they did you some harm you haven't noticed yet. Those bruises look nasty."
"Thaerma? Go back to the Court?"
"Oh, yes, I think so," Rauthur replied, in tones that made it clear he was issuing an order. "Tamadanther took over your duty-guard as usual?"
"Aye," Pheldemar growled, departing with a none-too-pleased look on his face.
"Come, come!" Huldyl said jokingly. "In a short time the gentle hands of Thaerma will be . . ."
"We go way back, lad, she'n'me. 'Tis not the joy for me you imagine it to be." Pheldemar turned the corner and was gone.
Huldyl shrugged, half-smiled, and turned back to his game of plundercastle. The cards that showed the attacking Witch-Lord wyvern-riders had struck him with damnable luck, and most of his turret-warriors were dead already. Gloomily he moved one of the survivors along the ring of turrets.
I'm just choosing which one he'll die in.
He stared at the board with more foreboding than he'd felt since just before the last battle with the Devil Dragon.
Very much like the choice I've just made for myself.
Which is when he heard the running footsteps. Someone frantic, coming fast and crashing into things along the way in his haste.
"Huldyl? Huldyl?"
Darthym was one of the few half-elf War Wizards, and he prided himself on being pleasant, soft-spoken, unassuming, and a mage of no gossip and few idle words. Now, however, he was wild-eyed and panting.
"Huldyl, Jandur and Throckyl are dead! Dead, blasted down with spells!"
Rauthur erupted from his seat, spilling pieces and cards in all directions. This must be Starangh's work-but he had to make his reaction look right, and he'd been losing the damned game anyway. "What?" he roared, trying to match Darthym's fire-eyed look.
"I-in the armory! Blown apart! Throckyl's head is just sitting there, all by itself, looking out the door at me! I-"
"Thank you, Darthym. No sign of who did it, I suppose? Look you: Go and wake Sarmeir and tell him in my name that he's to stand duty-guard with you here. Tell him all you want about what you found, but direct the sanctum defenses if any of the outside guards report troubles to you. You're in charge. I must report this to Laspeera without delay!"
"Y-yes, Rauthur!" The half-elf leaped away down the passage, glad of something to do and direct orders letting him do it. Huldyl shook his head and smiled grimly. Ah, such troubled times. . . .
He ran a hand through his thinning hair, wiped his sweating brows with a knuckle, stood still, and cleared his mind.
It was still in place, as strong as ever. The mindcloak spell Sta-rangh had given him was whispering ever so faintly at the back of his mind, a ready wall to block all probing magics.
Even those of a suspicious second-in-command of all the War Wizards of Cormyr. He was ready to go and make his report.
Seventeen
The most punishing spell I can think of is one that hurls you into your enemy's mind, and he into yours. Minds rubbing raw on each other-now there's true agony.
Narnra looked up at the magnificent ceiling of the Dragonwing Chamber. Huge sinuous scaled bodies, swirling and rolling over, frozen forever on the verge of bursting forth in full and terrible glory . . .