“End it,” was the curt response.
“What’re you saying?” Lord Crownsilver demanded, as the man opened his eyes and brought his arms down. “Jalassa? Where’s my Jalassa?”
Tsantress turned to face him, face unreadable. “Stay here,” she said. “Come no closer to yon chamber.” She looked meaningfully at Lorbryn, who stepped in front of Crownsilver, blocking his way on.
Over Lorbryn’s shoulder, the lord saw Tsantress turn back into the room and murmur orders. Arms lifted in castings, the air glowed an eerie blue-white, and then… something ruby, orange, and sudden roared up from the ashes, whirling around the room in a shrieking, scouring cloud that left war wizards staggering or on their knees, clutching their eyes or covering their noses and mouths with desperate hands.
Then, quite suddenly, the roaring and roiling were gone, and Maniol Crownsilver was peering into a room that seemed to be full of dust-and dust-caked, coughing and choking war wizards, moving dazedly through the drifting clouds.
“Tsantress?” Lorbryn called urgently, over his shoulder. “Art well?”
“I’ve been better,” came the glum reply, from a soot-faced, barely recognizable apparition that came out of the dust to stand with him. “That was a trap-spell left on her ashes, to mix them with our own sweat and hairs, and make necromantic interrogation impossible.”
Maniol gaped at her. “Necro…? My Jalassa-is she-?”
Tsantress nodded.
“ Nooo! No, she can’t be! My-my-not my Jalassa!”
Tsantress thrust Lorbryn gently aside and stepped forward, a soot-caked scarecrow, to put comforting arms around the sagging, weeping lord.
“Lord Crownsilver,” she said, “I’m afraid Lady Crownsilver is no more.”
“Jalassa! Jalassa! ” the man in her arms sobbed, clawing at her, trying to get past her. War wizards coming out of the room stared at him grimly.
“Bring her back!” Lord Crownsilver howled at them. “You’ve magic, you can do that! Bring her back to me! ”
Tsantress shook her head sadly, her blackened face almost touching his.
“Please,” he sobbed, shaking her. “Please!”
“Lord Crownsilver, your wife was working with an enemy of the Crown of Cormyr. That traitor is unknown to us, thus far-but that traitor murdered Lady Crownsilver to keep us or anyone else learning of them from her. Murdered her, spellguarded the room her ashes were in against scrying and translocations, spell-sealed its doors, and left trap magics waiting for anyone who came to investigate. Take whatever comfort you can from knowing the Wizards of War will leave no hint or trail unfollowed until that traitor is found-and destroyed.”
Maniol Crownsilver threw back his head to gulp in air, still crying, and after a few shuddering breaths managed to gasp, “No comfort at all!”
Tsantress kept firm arms around him. “Would you like to accompany us to the palace? Or have some of us remain here with you? You should not be alone-”
“No,” Crownsilver sobbed, “I don’t want war wizards standing around me speaking empty soothings. I want them at my side, casting every spell they have, to find me my daughter!”
“Your daughter?”
“My Narantha! I must find her. She’s all I have left of my beautiful Jalassa, now.”
Each group of guards searched the three with stony disregard for modesty or gender, removing all the weapons they could find. It took a long time to reach the innermost chamber.
“State your name, each of you,” Dauntless growled then. After Florin, Jhessail, and Pennae had done that, he nodded, raised his hand to indicate the unsmiling woman in worn, unadorned battle-leathers standing behind the map-strewn table, and said, “Swords of Eveningstar, this is Myrmeen Lhal, the Lady Lord of Arabel. In this city, her word is law-and you stand here at her pleasure.”
Florin bowed low. “Lady, we are loyal to the king. What would you, with us?”
The lady lord said, “Produce your charter. Now.”
Florin bowed again, stepped back, and turned his back. Dauntless was at his side in a moment, sword half-drawn, to watch suspiciously as Florin unbuckled his codpiece and flipped it up, to undo a lacing inside, and pluck forth-a much-folded, tiny square of parchment.
Jhessail covered her eyes in disgust, but Pennae, Dauntless, and the guards behind Dauntless were all grinning as Florin tucked his codpiece back into place, spun around, and triumphantly unfolded the royal charter.
Myrmeen Lhal’s wry amusement gleamed in her eyes, but had completely failed to reach the rest of her face. She took the parchment from Florin almost reverently, read it, and handed it back.
“Your charter is in order,” she announced, “wherefore ’tis my duty only to give you fair warning. Swords, your activities within Arabel’s walls haven’t gone unnoticed, and further thievery will not go unpunished. Pennae, you could very easily find yourself imprisoned for a long time, with some of your nimble fingers broken so they’ll heal with rather less deftness than they’ve displayed thus far.”
She started to stroll, hands clasped behind her back like a swordcaptain glowering at disobedient novices, and added sharply, “Cormyr needs gallant adventurers-but Arabel has no room for villainous rogues, miscreants brutish in words and deeds, and impudent, cheating, lying, thieving outlaws. Your charter gives you no right to take coins by force from others, nor swindle them to support lazy, sneaking, or disloyal lives within our walls.”
Florin’s eyelids flickered. He’d heard such words before, from… ah, yes. He smiled. Dauntless tensed.
“Many folk do little but cower and try to keep warm in winter, sewing or whittling or honing blades,” Myrmeen added. “I will understand if you do little while the snows howl and deepen. I will understand far too well if you grow restless, and decide a little danger-lawless danger-is a good way to pass the cold days. It is my hope never to have cause to suspect you of anything, and to be able to smile when I hear of the Swords of Eveningstar, recalling heroism and gallantry. It would please me very much if you did not dash my hopes and disappoint me.”
She stopped strolling. “Have you anything you wish to say to me?”
“Lady Lord,” Pennae said, “you can depend on me, and us all.” Jhessail nodded.
Florin raised a hand. “May I request a private audience with you, Lady Lord? Now?”
“You may. All save Falconhand, withdraw to the outermost guardpost. Return their weapons to them.”
Dauntless and several other guards frowned, and the ornrion was bold enough to ask, “Lady Lord, is this wise? This man-”
“Heard the orders I gave as well as you did,” Myrmeen Lhal said. “And probably expects you to obey them as much as I do.”
Dauntless dropped his gaze to his boots, mumbled an apology, and turned and gruffly began to shoo everyone out.
“Horses of the Wargod,” Agannor growled, “but I mislike the smell of this! What if they never come back? The lady lord could clap them all in irons in her deepest cell and just forget all about them! Leaving us…”
His voice trailed away as a slender, large-eyed, pretty lass whose skirts seemed slit right up to her armpits sat gently in his lap and murmured, “You were so brave, both of you! Standing up to the Dragons like that, without even drawing blade! I’m Taeriana.”
“Uh, well met, Taer-”
“And I’m Kestra,” a slightly shorter and plumper version of Taeriana said breathlessly to Bey, deftly depositing herself in his lap.
“Ladylasses,” Bey said, “we must watch for our friends, and haven’t coin to spare for-”
“We understand,” Kestra said, licking his stubbled jaw. “We don’t want coin-not this time, at least-”
“And feel you deserve a reward,” Taeriana purred. “How about just a few moments together, behind yon curtain? Aviathus keeps yon for us, clean and safe; he’ll come if your friends return.” The wandering tip of her forefinger dipped inside Agannor’s jerkin, heading for his left nipple, as she added, “Like us, he admires you for standing up to the Dragons. So peacefully… but, ohhh, so sternly! ”