Her last sentence was delivered in a perfect mimicry of the cold, cutting tones of the elder Dowager Lady Summerstar; Thalance snorted with mirth, but Erlandar said heavily, "Pray don't mock Pheirauze, lady, for all her faults. She was … the storm wind that shaped me."
Storm bowed her head. "My apologies, Lord Summerstar. I have an impish streak that often gets the better of me."
"Is it true you spent years in the South as a tavern-dancer and pleasure slave because of that streak?" Thalance asked eagerly.
The war wizards leaned forward in interest.
Storm was even more amused by the lift of the understeward's eyebrow as he glided in between them to murmur, "Venison haunch in crust."
Thurdal kept his face otherwise carefully expressionless, and Storm gave him a broad smile as she replied, "Yes-and I enjoyed most of it, too. Did you know that many elven men can be transported to the heights of passion by stroking the tips of their ears?"
Erlandar shook his head in exasperation. Storm helped herself to the haunch-one of her favorites-generously. "No, I didn't, lady, but frankly I care not. Elven men aren't likely to be high on my list of conquests-or anyone else, for that matter, if this shapeshifter decides to slaughter me! What else can you tell us about. . well, Shayna, and just what this foe can do?"
"Our foe can somehow drink knowledge and abilities-spells he can cast, for instance-from his victims. This power has something to do with the burnt-out state of the bodies we've found," Storm told them. "As to Shayna-well, she refers to this shapeshifter as her 'Master,' and can talk mind to mind with him. . presumably another power he's gained."
"You said he had her in thrall," the wizard Insprin said quietly. "Can this foe do the same thing to the rest of us?"
Storm shrugged. "I don't know," she said, "but surely his killings could be fewer, and he could show himself less, if he could control anyone from a distance."
"Azoun's eyes," the understeward announced, carefully not meeting Storm's gaze.
"What's 'Azoun's eyes'?" Corathar whispered, eyeing the steaming tureen set down in front of him.
"Oysters in spiced ale," Storm told him, leaning forward conspiratorially.
Erlandar's gaze went involuntarily to the pectoral gleaming on her breast-and his eyes narrowed. "That jewelry you're wearing. . isn't it the same design as one I see often on Queen Filfaeril?"
"Yes," Storm told him, filling a bowl with a hearty helping of Azoun's eyes. "It bears some magical defenses."
"Such as?" Thalance asked.
Storm smiled thinly. "It's unwise to reveal such things when anyone may be your foe, but I'll show you just one." She pushed back the sleeve of her open shirt, unbuckled the dagger strapped to her forearm, and fastened it high up by her shoulder, to hold the sleeve up.
Extending her bare arm out across the table, she said gently, "My Lord Erlandar, I know that the death of Pheirauze troubles you-and you ache to have something to smite and carve with your sword. So strike at me now, with all your strength and savagery!"
Erlandar frowned at her. "This is-not right, lady," he said in protest, shaking his head.
"Please," Storm said. "Thalance needs to see a little magic."
She held up her other hand in warning. "Only pray balance yourself, as if you might miss, to avoid a fall."
Erlandar stood up, still frowning at her, and his blade slowly slid out. "It's a trick, then-the magic will make me miss."
"Try to cut my arm off," Storm replied gravely, "and you'll see. You will not be harmed."
Erlandar shrugged, and then raised his blade. With a smooth lift of his shoulders, he swept his blade down in a cut across her forearm. The steel slid through her flesh as if it were empty air, and left no wound behind. Her arm was untouched. Thalance stared at it in fascination.
"An ironguard," Broglan said, and Storm nodded. "Try again, Erlandar-really hack; you'll feel better."
The eldest Summerstar man gave her a hard look, and then growled and swung his blade down again, hacking and hewing like a man possessed. In the midst of the flashing steel the understeward came in at the head of another line of servers, glided to a stop, and waited politely until Erlandar lowered his blade, panting-and Storm withdrew her unmarked arm.
"Old coins," Thurdal announced gravely, setting down the lead platter.
When the servers had done the same and turned away, Corathar leaned forward and whispered, "Right-what're 'old coins'?"
"Egg, cheese, and marrow pies," Storm and Insprin told him, more or less in unison. The bard was still standing, calmly rolling her sleeve down, when the unmistakable crack of a crossbow firing echoed across the hall-followed by the loud, rising thrum of a streaking quarrel.
With an angry buzz, it zipped between Thalance and Broglan, burst right through Storm's body, and splintered against the far wall. Everyone at the table whirled around-except Thalance, who kept his awed eyes on the lady bard. Storm herself was already gazing at her would-be slayer.
Everyone else saw a Purple Dragon hurl down his crossbow and flee, the doors banging wide in his wake. The passage beyond was strewn with the bodies of other guards.
"Gentlesirs, the foe," Storm announced calmly.
The doors at the other end of the hall, behind them, burst open, and the boldshield hastened in with his sword drawn, Purple Dragons all around him. They glanced quickly around the tables and then ran on down the hall, toward their dead comrades.
As if in unspoken accord, everyone at table turned to look at Storm. She was unhurt, no mark left in her breast-where the pectoral glittered almost tauntingly. Calmly buckling her dagger back into place, she looked up and said brightly, "Oh, did I forget to mention that this collection of baubles is also a protection against missiles?"
"Gods, lady," Erlandar growled, "you're a laughing lunatic to top all!"
Storm tossed her head as she shook her sleeve back down into place. "I fear so. Folk always seem to remember my kinder side, and forget what an imp I am." She bowed to them gravely, and added, "My apologies."
There was a general shout of relieved laughter. The understeward glided serenely into the midst of it to announce, "Marsemban tarts, roast pheasant, and roast quail in a sauce of cheese, saffron, and white wine."
"All right," Corathar said disgustedly. "What are Marsemban tarts?"
There were chuckles, and Erlandar rose, said grandly, "May I? Pastries topped with parsley and potato, containing diced salmon and crab in a sauce of almond milk, wine, leeks, and persimmons."
There was a smattering of applause-but then, there were few diners left to give it. Erlandar and Storm both sat down.
The old Summerstar noble said, "I must thank you, lady, for making what I feared would be a grim meal indeed into something.. entertaining."
Storm shrugged. "Death comes for us all, and unpleasantness, too," she told him, filling her glass with amberheart sherry. "Some of us are given very little time to live, so why not enjoy all we can and share that joy with others? It's better than melancholy moping, to be sure!"
"Magely philosophy?" Broglan asked with a smile.
Storm shrugged. "I'm more an adventurer than I am an all-knowing sorceress, Broglan. Far from it; Mystra wants her Chosen not to be tower-girded tome-studiers." She saw Insprin and Corathar leaning forward again in keen interest, and added, "It's Mystra's Way to let us all forge our own paths in life; we know only what we can learn ourselves … and I've spent far more time with a sword in my hand down the years, than a spellbook."
Broglan nodded slowly. "Do you. . speak of such things often?"
Storm shook her head. "Only with Harpers-or, most recently, with the foe, as we fought," she told him. There were gasps and dropped jaws up and down the table.