So do a steadily lengthening line of folk up here in the North who want me to advance this project, that law, or the other alliance for them. Have my warmest thanks for this warning, Lael-it's certainly thrown a fireball into the cooking caldron in front of me just now. A tradelord from Neverwinter has been bloodily mur shy;dered under my roof, and Auvrarn Labraster met with him not long before he died. Taern's sizzling around like meat on a skillet, which is about what our victim looks like, all over my floor. I'm beginning to think I need me alive, too.
We'll both work on that need, then. Keep me all-wise and all-knowing, mmm?
Without fail. Fare thee better, Lael.
By the Lady, you've been eavesdropping on Khelben again! Fare thee well, Lustra.
"And this is?" Oscalar Maerbree refused to be cowed into obedience or even sullen acceptance, but strode along beside the seneschal like royalty being given a personal tour of the High Palace, ignoring the two fully armored guards who bore drawn swords a bare pace behind his back.
"The Chamber of the Hunting Horn," Taern Hornblade said shortly, setting his hand on an upswept, horn shaped doorknob and thrusting the door inward. "If you will, milord."
Oscalar inclined his head graciously, clasped his hands behind his back, and strolled inside, looking back over his shoulder for the first time at the stern, helmed armsmen in his wake. "A pleasant evening to you, good sirs. Mind you keep the hallway warm out there for my return."
Then, and only then, did he turn, whistling a little tune between his teeth, and let his eyes wander lazily around the room. A balcony thrust forward to tower over the room like the bow of a docked ship, its pillars and overhang ornately carved in sweeping curves and needles of dark wood, its upper works lost in darkness. Rich rugs were spread underfoot, tapestries and paint shy;ings-the inevitable elven hunts, one of them with swanmays taking wing from human form out of a forest pool, mounting into the air in alarm beside a flight of pegasi-hung on all sides, with doors surely behind some of them. There were lamps and hanging sconces in similar profusion, though none of them were lit. Above, a soft amber glow radiated from a lone hunting horn hung on a chain. A brighter, whiter light burned before him, at the elbow of a dark-gowned, barefoot woman reclining on a lounge. The light was coming from a small rock crystal sphere at the tip of a plain, slender black staff that stood upright by itself, with no hand to hold it. There were chairs and tables in plenty, all dark and empty and silent. The only living presence was the woman. Her hands were empty, her unbound silver hair stirred about her shoulders, and her only adornment was a fine neck chain dipping down out of sight between her breasts. Her dark and thoughtful eyes were two hard dagger points upon his.
"Gods, woman!" Oscalar roared, slapping at his thighs so as to set the little bells dangling from his bright and stylish new codpiece chiming. "If you wanted me, all you had to do was send a page-or come yourself. You'll never need to bring more than a flask of wine and a smile. You didn't have to make two idiots dress up in battle steel and clank across half the palace-or awaken Thunderguts here, either."
Without waiting for a reply from the High Lady of Silverymoon, the large, fat wine merchant turned and pointed imperiously at the open door. "You may leave us, mage!"
Taern was looking at the lady on the lounge, and con shy;tinued to do so. She shifted her eyes to his, and nodded almost imperceptibly. The seneschal bowed his head, turned with slow grandeur and not a glance at the mer shy;chant, and strode out, drawing the door closed as he went.
He left a little silence in his wake, and Oscalar and Alustriel peered through it at each other for a moment or two before the merchant asked more quietly, "This isn't about pleasure, is it, Bright Lady?"
"You're more than usually perceptive, Lion of the North," Alustriel replied calmly. "Or is it 'Sword of Sil shy;verymoon' these days?"
The wine merchant ducked his head down between his shoulders like a gull standing in an icy wind, "Hah-hem, lady, I know not. Have I offended anyone impor shy;tant with my … attentions? Or is there something else you'd like to talk about?"
"There is," Alustriel said, a note of doom in her quiet voice. "I'd like to talk about death."
There was a little silence, and the room seemed to grow slightly darker. Oscalar Maerbree stared over the chairs and tables between them, squinting slightly to make clear contact with the eyes of the lady on the lounge.
"I'm sorry, Lady Alustriel," he said in disbelief, "but did you say-'death'?"
"Death, merchant. . but not the death that will surely be yours if you don't take both of your enchanted daggers out of their sheaths-slowly-and lay them on that table to your right," Alustriel replied almost ten shy;derly. "Another death."
She let silence fall again, sitting like a statue as Oscalar Maerbree met her eyes uncertainly, fumbled with his large, many-horned belt buckle as if finding nervous comfort in stroking something so reassuringly large and solid, then drew out a long, needle-thin knife from behind it, and a more stout blade from one boot. He hefted them for a moment, eyes measuring hers thoughtfully, then set the two weapons carefully on the indicated table, took two slow and deliberate steps away from it, and said, "Right-what's this about, then?"
"Please sit down, Oscalar. Here."
One of Alustriel's long arms rose to point at a chair only a stride or two away from the lounge, the sleeve of her gown rippling. The merchant's eyes narrowed, then he threaded his way through the idle furniture to the chair with a few quick strides, snatched it up with a grunt and sudden flexing of corded forearms, and car shy;ried it four paces to one side.
"Your servant, Lady," he almost snarled, sitting down heavily. "Now, what by all the gods is this about? I was hoping to catch a kiss or two before morn-"
"You still might, merchant, if you give the right answers swiftly and clearly."
"And which, Lady, might the right answers be?"
"The truth, Oscalar." The eyes locked on his were two flames of promised fury. "For once. Put away your cod shy;piece, give me simple answers, and this will all end for you."
The merchant winced at the waiting rage in Alus shy;triel's gaze, and swallowed, unable to drag his eyes away from hers. Gods, but it was hot in the darkened room. "Right," he said curtly. "Ask your questions."
"Was Tradelord Muirtree of Neverwinter alive when you left him?" Alustriel snapped, right on the heels of the merchant's words. He stared at her, brows drawing together in a frown. "Well?"
"Lady," he said slowly, "I never met with the tradelord."
"You neither saw nor spoke to Garthin Muirtree this day?"
"No. I'd hoped to-we had a moot planned, here in the palace-but a page brought me a note from him, begging off."
"Where is that note?"
The fat merchant spread helpless hands. "Gone. I burned it in the grate in my room the moment I'd read it-my habit for everything but contracts and treaties."
Alustriel raised a mocking eyebrow, but the mer shy;chant growled at her look and said, "Truth." His jaws snapped out the word as if he were slamming a castle door.
"What did the note say?"
"The words are gone, lady-but 'twas an apology, signed by him, saying he'd have to miss 'our planned parley'… that's how he put it. Said he'd been taken ill, and it would be his pleasure to send the same page to me early on the morrow to arrange another moot."