“Two handfuls of ashes? How can I hold that hostage?”
“Lass, lass, trust me. How often, down the centuries, have I failed ye?”
“I have lost count of the times,” Storm replied bitterly, but the eerie shape of ashes slumped-and Amarune stirred, limbs flopping, jerked to her feet, and began a shambling, dragging walk around the room, arms flailing clumsily when they weren’t dangling … a walk that smoothed out into more natural movements as Elminster slowly gained control.
The next circuit of the room looked like Amarune the dancer moving normally; she turned her head and carried herself as she usually did, and moved her hands as Amarune, not as an old archwizard trying to decide how a graceful young woman used her hands.
Storm Silverhand said fiercely, “You must ride her only when needful, and tell no one-and repay her for the use you make of her body … no matter how much she comes to hate us.”
“Agreed,” El replied solemnly in Amarune’s voice but with Elminster’s manner. “Now gather up my ashes in something, and we’ll be out of here. So much magic has been hurled around that even wizards of war can’t help but notice.”
Ruthgul often thought he might not be the only grizzled old swindler in Suzail, but by the gods, he was one of the most successful.
Recently, he had even had some legitimate business errands. Which is what he was out and about seeing to at the moment, scuttling along various alleys.
He was growing increasingly astonished at what he was seeing in the streets of Suzail. Purple Dragon patrols were everywhere, and he was challenged repeatedly. Thankfully, his wagon held nothing but wine casks for various taverns, and he was searched and allowed to continue. Many times.
Returning to his wagon when it finally held nothing but empties, Ruthgul found himself astonished anew.
Amarune Whitewave was waiting for him, with a young and slightly bedraggled noble he knew by sight: Lord Arclath Delcastle. With them was a tall and strikingly beautiful silver-haired woman, who held a small coffer in her hands.
“We want to hire your wagon-and your discretion-to hide us and our friend, here, among your casks, until you’ve rumbled well out of the city,” Amarune said crisply.
Ruthgul grimaced. “I–I’d like nothing better than to accommodate you, lass, but truth be told, I’m not going out of the city!”
Lord Delcastle stepped forward with a broad smile. “Ruthgul, perhaps the lady didn’t make your choices clear enough.”
He hefted a small cloth bag. “These gems can be yours, if you make the trip-or you can refuse and take this instead. Every finger of its bright and very sharp length.” He hefted the point of his drawn sword meaningfully, smile never wavering.
Ruthgul swallowed then brightly observed that he’d just remembered he did have to leave the city on urgent business, with his wagon.
He leaned closer and added in a low growl, “But I fear for my life-or the custody of my wagon-the moment we’re out of sight of the walls. What’s to stop you just killing me?”
“This,” Amarune told him, handing him the daintiest hand crossbow he’d ever seen, and three darts. “Ready it, aim it at one of us, and we can hopefully trust each other. So long as it doesn’t go off by accident. That would be bad, see?”
Arclath and Amarune stood in the dappled sunlight of deep, mossy greenery and dark and massive leaning trees on the edge of the King’s Forest with a weary Storm between them, her arms about their shoulders, watching Ruthgul’s wagon rumble away.
“As promised,” Storm murmured to Amarune. “Welcome back.”
Amarune nodded a little shakily. “That was … it’s going to take a lot of getting used to. When will-?”
“El be in your mind again? Only when it’s needful.”
“I should be on that wagon,” Arclath growled. “The council …”
“Will unfold just fine without you. Mirt will speak for House Delcastle, and Raereene is watchful, with the Princess Alusair to spy for her.”
Arclath sighed. “I very much want to know what the two of you are doing in Cormyr at all.”
Storm nodded. “Trying to accomplish three things: One, save Cormyr from its present troubles-Stormserpent’s treason, but also those behind him-plus other villainy that’s gathering around this council and awaiting a good time to strike.”
She looked meaningfully at Amarune. “Two, find a successor to take over the task of saving Cormyr and the rest of the Realms.”
Amarune went pale. “I … I’m not sure I’m ready … or worthy.”
“Good,” Storm said with a sudden smile. “That reassures me greatly; you’ll do fine. Three, gather up all magic items we can, to use them to do a good and necessary thing.”
“Which is-?”
“Later, Arclath. I need a few answers, first. Where does Arclath Delcastle stand? What is Amarune to you, really? And whom do you serve first: yourself, the Delcastles, the Crown of Cormyr, or-?”
Arclath stared at Storm Silverhand for a moment then said slowly, “I regard Amarune as a friend. One I am honored to have, not a playpretty or someone to, ah, exploit. My lady, if she’ll have me. And yes, after standing for her, I stand for Cormyr.”
Storm smiled again. “And Rune, what matters most to you, right now?”
Amarune blushed, looked down, and told the toes of her boots, “Arclath’s regard. After that, the loss of the life I had. If the war wizards know I’m the Silent Shadow …”
“And becoming mistress to a lord whose name may or may not be Delcastle seems less than attractive?”
“Lady Storm,” Arclath said sharply, “those words try both my honor and that of this lady!”
“No doubt,” Storm replied calmly. “Yet being as you leap to her defense, Lord Delcastle, I ask you: if the authorities know her past, what will Amarune do?”
A noble hand waved dismissively. “In half a day I could see her well placed in service to a dozen noble families, if she wishes.”
Amarune’s face told all the King’s Forest around them how little this suggestion pleased her, and Arclath added hastily, “Or I have influence enough-with some very highly placed persons-to get her into the palace.”
Amarune gave him a sidelong glance. “Oh? War wizards and palace guards like to watch barepelt lasses dance?”
Arclath nodded then reddened. “Yes, and … ah, other things.”
Amarune’s stare sharpened. “So what is a woman who does those ‘other things’ around the palace called? Bedwarmer? Bedmaid? Or something lower and ruder?”
Arclath winced, then said carefully, “Lady, I did not mean to give offense. I-oh, gods blast, I’m less than good at this …”
“Oh, I’d not say that,” Amarune replied calmly. “So, would you expect to be a frequent patron of mine? Or will I be nightly facing a long line of snooty old courtiers?”
Some hours of walking later, Storm turned to Arclath a little wearily. “Are you leading us to the old royal hunting lodge?”
Arclath shook his head. “I know a better place. We want to be properly cozy, if war’s coming to Cormyr in the next month or so.”
Amarune whirled to face him, almost knocking Storm headlong into a bog. “Is war coming to Cormyr in the next month or so?”
Arclath smiled crookedly. “We’ll just have to see, lass. We’ll just have to see.” He reached out to caress her hair. “In the meantime, this strong and noble body of mine-”
“Is getting hungry and will want to eat well before dark,” Storm said firmly. “Even lust-smitten young nobles have to eat. So while I’m certain this ‘better place’ of yours has a bed the two of you will waste no time in bouncing on, I trust it also boasts hearth, and firewood, and a good cooking cauldron or two. Oh, and a ladle; I’ve grown tired of scalding my stirring finger.”
“Gods,” Arclath murmured, “this bids fair to echo traveling with my old nursemaid.”