“Of course,” Mallowfaer responded in a voice that had an edge all its own, “but the Crown Prin-”
“Crown Prince Irvel confers with me often. I last spoke with him-and with Princess Ospra, Prince Baerovus, and Princess Raedra-just before departing the Sunstatues Chamber to come here. All of them are confident the customary support of the entire palace will make this council a success, however tense matters become. I should add that even one not born to high station, the Lady Solatha Boldtree, shares this confidence and has said as much. To me.”
“Nevertheless-”
“Nevertheless,” the palace steward said crushingly, “we deal with functions and courtesies large and small here in this great seat of rulership, day in and day out, and shall continue to do so without any need for the Master of Revels to try to alter or gainsay the usual precedence or procedures. I fully expect each and every one of you to-”
Elminster shook his head and strolled on down the secret passage, Hallowdant’s coldly cutting words fading behind him. He found himself both amused-he could practically complete the palace steward’s speech by heart, without any need to actually hear the rest of it-and heartened. Murmurs of agreement had been backing Hallowdant in a sort of chorus.
The court was bent on their duties.
Ganrahast or no Ganrahast, things would go on. Haughty and fussy and backbiting though they were, the courtiers of Cormyr would deal with things.
King rise or king fall, regicide or nobles poisoning each other with abandon or chasing each other down the halls with gore-dripping battle-axes, the palace servants would endure. And the Forest Kingdom with them, for they were the kingdom. They and the carters and crofters, foresters and horsebreeders, goodwives and crafters and smiths, from the Thunder Peaks to the Stormhorns. Let Hallowdant and Mallowfaer spit and snarl; most of the other faces he’d just seen through a spyhole were both worried and excited. They were the faces of men who cared.
The Forest Kingdom was still strong. Whoever warmed the throne or this or that high lord’s chair might change, but the kingdom would endure.
Which meant a certain Sage of Shadowdale could take the items that held the survivors of the Nine for Alassra. Cormyr would get along just fine without them.
Lord Arclath Delcastle stopped, put his hands on his hips, and sighed in exasperation.
He had arisen early this fine bright morning, checked that his slumbering guest was still sleeping-they had talked late into the night but had slept apart, Arclath showing her his private pantry and sideboard and that she could lock herself in with them, and had heard her promptly do so-taken a quick breakfast of spiced plover’s eggs and hearth cakes, thrown on some suitably dandified finery, given his trusted servants firm instructions to render all reasonable aid to Amarune and to do so with respect, and taken himself off to the palace.
He had two tasks to discharge there, the lesser concerning himself and the greater concerning the news Amarune had agreed that the war wizard Glathra should hear, without delay.
His personal business was the same as many of the lesser nobles of the realm this morning. He sought to learn where his seat at council would be and which particular courtier he should look for on the day to escort him to his seat.
In Arclath’s case, this lesser task also involved conveying his mother’s regrets; she of course would not be attending, and was in fact sending Arclath in her stead, while his father was too drunk to even know there was a council.
His more pressing task-to report to the wizard Glathra that the mask dancer Amarune, the Silent Shadow, had just learned that she was the great-granddaughter of the infamous wizard Elminster, who was lurking in Suzail at that moment and wanted her to steal particular magic items for him that held the ghosts of the legendary Nine-would have been much easier if Arclath had been able to find Glathra.
Not that any of the wizards of war he collared seemed to know where she might be found, stlarn them.
The whole palace was in an uproar that morning, everyone rushing about terribly busy with council-related security requirements, servant deployments, and furniture rearrangements. Both the sprawling royal court and the majestic royal palace were a noisy bedlam of hurrying, calling, feverishly working folk; every last chambermaid and page seemed swept up in it all.
He was growing tired of holding his own hips. He’d much rather have his hands on Rune’s, and-
Enough. Banish that thought until he could do something about it.
Drawing a deep breath, Lord Arclath Delcastle squared his shoulders, put a “no nonsense, please” frown on his face, and marched forward into the tumult.
He knew a few senior war wizards by sight, and surely some of them must be there in the palace. He’d just keep going until he found one and ask for Glathra until he found someone who-
“Hold, saer!”
Arclath sighed. The challenges were going to come frequently that morning, by the looks of things. He gave the Purple Dragon guard barring his way with horizontal-held spear a patient smile, and began, “Fair morn to you, Telsword. I’m looking for Wizard of War Glathra …”
The man scowled, instantly suspicious. “And just why d’you want to see her, Lord?”
Oh, it was going to be a long morning.
In a dark passage deep beneath the palace, Elminster came to a halt and cursed softly. On the wall ahead hung an old shield he’d watched Vangerdahast enspell, far more years earlier than he cared to remember. Its enchantments made it a silent warning of certain things arriving where nobles liked to congregate. When it started to glow, wizards of war had known to curse and hasten off to deal with whatever trouble the less loyal nobility of the Forest Kingdom were bringing to fair Suzail.
Those wizards were all dead. Which left him.
Turning to begin hastening, he got to work on the cursing part.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Arclath prided himself on a certain supple grace of stride, a smooth saunter that drew the eye. He’d needed it that morn to thread his way through all the rushing chamberjacks and chambermaids without too many jarring collisions.
He’d also needed all the charm and glib tongue-work he could master to fend off frequent challenges from Purple Dragons as he sought out wizard of war after wizard. The ones he did find seemed to delight in frowningly directing him this way and that.
Not that the one he was standing in front of, at the moment, was any trial on the eyes. A real beauty, with a long, glossy fall of blue-black hair-the hue they called “midnight”-and large, liquid, dark eyes to match.
“I am Lord Arclath Delcastle,” he replied to her query. “What’s your name?”
“Raereene,” she replied, adding a polite smile and a calm wave of her hand that told him that his come-hither glance was wasted, and that she was more than used to the blandishments of men both young and old. “You’re seeking someone?”
“One of your colleagues,” Arclath told her. “A wizard of war who asked me to report to her, and gave her name as Glathra.”
The young beauty nodded and pointed at a nearby door. “I know not her present whereabouts, but if you wait in yon chamber, I can promise you she’ll be there soon. It’s where we always find her, sooner or later.”
Delcastle gave her a bow and smile of thanks, and made his way to the door. It proved to open into a little office-at the same time as an old, bearded man closed a secret panel behind himself on the far wall of the room and turned to face Arclath.
Who let the door close behind him as they stared at each other, and a crooked smile grew across the old man’s face.
“Well met, Lord Delcastle,” he said, going straight to a sideboard along one end of the office-ignoring its honor guard of a ceremonial suit of full armor, set up all lifelike on a stand-and selecting a decanter from the neat row atop it. “Care for a drink?”
“Who are you?” Arclath asked, waving the offer away. “A war wizard?”
“Yes,” the old man replied, “and I’d like to have something of a chat with thee. I’ve been hearing some strange things about young Lord Stormserpent and magic and some famous adventurers known as the Nine, and I’d like to know what ye know of such matters. What’re the fair nobles of the realm saying, hey?”
Delcastle stared at the old man in bewilderment. “Glathra?” he asked, frowning. “Is it you? Is this some sort of test? I’ve been known to enjoy little games, yes, but right now I rather lack the time-”
“Ah, nobles, nobles!” Elminster lamented mildly, sipping from the tallglass he’d just filled. “So important. Never have time for anything of consequence; so busy with feasting and dalliance and debauchery-”
Arclath sighed. “A tune I’ve heard more than a few times before. Saer, not now! This council must go perfectly or-”
“Or thy head’ll be served up on the next feast platter? Well, if ye don’t listen to me, it will go rather less than imperfectly; ’twill be a disaster, perhaps even offering the realm a regicide!”
Arclath arched an eyebrow. “My, my, so dramatic …”
He strolled across the room toward one of the two closed doors at its other end from the sideboard. “However, you don’t seem to be the person I’m looking for, so I’ll just be-” He reached out, hesitated for a moment, and then chose the handle of the right-hand door.
“Dead in about ten breaths from now,” Elminster finished his sentence for him briskly, “if ye step blindly through yon door. The elder Lady Illance is changing her gown in the chamber beyond, and her guards are very swift with their blades. Their poisoned blades, may I add, despite Crown law.”
Arclath whirled around. “What? They’d not dare! The-”
Elminster shook his head. “Ye are blind indeed, young Delcastle. Nigh every last noble at council will be breaking one Crown law or another-and they’ll all have weapons, spells on themselves, and some sort of forbidden magic or poison about their persons. Are ye sure ye’re a noble? Know ye nothing?”
Arclath stared at the old wizard, eyes narrowing. “You’re … you’re Elminster, aren’t you?”
El smiled, nodded-and slumped into a rather stiff parody of a courtly bow that left Arclath rolling his eyes and grinning.
Then he shook his head, still smiling, and said, “Well, I know I can’t walk around the palace asking for your advice and warnings at every second step without half-a-dozen war wizards and Dragons pouncing on us both!”
Elminster produced a grin of his own and went to the suit of armor. Plucking off its close-visored helm, he calmly emptied a dead mouse and its nest out of it, lowered it onto his head, and replied hollowly from inside it, “That’s why ye’re about to acquire a bodyguard. Help me on with all the rest of this clobber. Duar was about my size, I see, and he’s far too long dust to be wanting it all back now.”
“About your height, maybe, but he was twice your girth and even larger in the shoulders,” Arclath sighed, “but I doubt we dare tour the palace looking for a better fit.”
“I suppose not,” Elminster agreed cheerfully. “Besides, this is the suit with the enchanted codpiece-and I just might need it. Ye never know.”
His grotesquely broad wink left Arclath rolling his eyes again, but El was already sliding open the secret panel and waving Arclath through it. The noble stepped into the gloomy space beyond, and El followed.
The moment the panel closed behind them, the left-hand door at the end of the room swung open to reveal Glathra Barcantle and a man wearing a crown whom half Suzail knew at a glance: King Foril. They had been listening, and their faces were grim.
“So Elminster is after the Nine and believes them to be here,” Glathra said gloomily.
The king nodded. “He must not gain them. Any he does find, we must take back from him. Arclath can help us with that.”
“Can, yes,” Glathra muttered, “but will he?”
Foril sighed. “Distasteful as it seems, it’s high time to compel a few of our oh-so-loyal nobles to demonstrate their loyalty to Cormyr. Do whatever you must.”