It grinned at them over the garden wall for the space of two of Lathdue’s long and quivering breaths before it abruptly sank from view behind the wall. As if that had been a signal, folk stirred all around the sunken garden. There was a ragged roar, then servants and bodyguards were sprinting toward the wall, swords and belt-knives out. Even Lord Battlebar, down in the maze, plucked at his own knife and crashed across the highthorn in a lumbering run.
Chalass and Lathdue, white-faced, could only stare in silent horror. However fierce and grim the pursuit was now, as men converged on the garden wall in a frantic rush, it was too late for Shamril. Her daring was stilled forever. It might well also be too late for Lord Eskult Paertrover.
Chalass sagged soundlessly to her knees, staring at the two bodies as servants hurried to kneel over them, but Lathdue sobbed suddenly and loudly, and spun around to sprint after the rushing bodyguards. That crossbow had been fired from just where they’d seen the ghost.
Panting, she charged up the stair from the sunken garden and turned at its head, almost falling in her haste. A hand in livery caught her arm to steady her, and she swallowed, gasped for breath, and fell silent again.
There was no sign of the Grinning Ghost of Taverton Hall. A grim ring of men with drawn steel in their hands stood around the spot where the crossbow had been fired. It dangled, string loose, in the hands of Lord Crimmon Paertrover. His sword glittered in his other hand, beneath a face that was white and empty. His eyes stared past Lathdue, unseeing.
“Everyone I love … taken from me,” he blurted—and fell forward on his face, even faster than the rough hands that snatched away his blade and caught at his arms. As half Faerun rushed down on the voune lord. Lathdue felt a deener darkness than night rise up around her and close its merciful grasp over her eyes.
* * * * *
“Any man may say he has business with Lord Paertrover. To gain entry here, many a beggar and old soldier has said as much. His friend and secret business partner you may be, too—but I know you not.”
The old seneschal’s voice was cold and his stare was as wintry as a blizzard howling across the Stonelands, but the man across the table from him smiled with easy affability and replied, “Neither do I know you, goodman, but has that ever been a barrier between men of goodwill? You have the look of a retired Purple Dragon, and I respect all who’ve fought to keep our fair land safe. Might I know your name?”
“Greiryn,” the bristle-browed man on the far side of the table said shortly. “Seneschal of Taverton Hall.”
The stout man with the shaggy sideburns bounded from his seat to stretch a welcoming hand across the tabletop, for all the world as if he were the host, and not the visitor. “Glarasteer Rhauligan, dealer in turret tops and spires,” he boomed. “No embattlement too small, no embrasure too large, no crenellation too eccentric. If you can draw it, I can build it! I’ve come from bustling Suzail itself, turning my back on insistent barons and eager knights alike, to keep my appointment with the Lord Eskult Paertrover.” He gestured imperiously with the hand that Greiryn had been ignoring and added firmly, “I do have an appointment.”
“Saw you the black banner?” the seneschal asked in grim and reluctant tones. Rhauligan shrugged in a “no, but what of it?” gesture, and Greiryn said icily, “My Lord lies dead in the family crypt, of heartstop, and won’t be seeing anyone. Good day to you, merchant.”
The fat man in silks and furs made another imperious gesture, more hastily this time. “His son, then,” Rhauligan said eagerly, “the young blade who makes half the ladies in Cormyr swoon and the rest sigh! He’ll be Lord Paertrover now, right?”
“If he lives to take any title,” Greiryn replied in tones of doom that were almost drowned out by the sudden blare of a hunting horn sounding from the gates.
He rose at the sound, reaching for his cloak. “You must excuse me—that will be a Wizard of War, sent from Suzail to see to Lord Crimmon’s fate.”
* * * * *
The royal arms gleamed on the door of the coach even through the swirling road dust. Rhauligan counted no less than sixteen black horses in its harness, stamping and tossing their heads impatiently as that regal door opened and a man in stylish robes of lush purple alighted.
The servant with the hunting horn blew a too loud, wandering-note flourish, and the newcomer didn’t trouble to hide his wince and frown. He extended his left hand in a fist, displaying a ring to the already-bowing seneschal, and snapped his fingers.
In answer to this signal, a servant still hastening out of the coach proclaimed grandly, “All hail and make welcome Lord Jalanus Westerbotham, Scepter of Justice, Dragonfang Lord Investigator for Northbank, Starwater, and the Western Coast!”
The figure in purple inclined his head in coldly distant greeting to the three noble lords, swept past them and their daughters, ignored Rhauligan and a hastily-arrayed lineup of household servants, and strode toward the pillared entry of Taverton Hall. The seneschal practically sprinted to catch up with him, holding his ceremonial sword at one hip. Rhauligan gave Greiryn a cheerful grin as he puffed past and was rewarded with a fierce scowl.
“Lord Jalanus!” the seneschal gasped, trying to smile, “be welcome indeed in Taverton Hall. A sad occasion calls you here, but I’m sure that your stay nee—”
“Where, man, are my quarters? ” the War Wizard demanded in tones that Rhauligan promptly—and privately—dubbed “coldly patrician.”
“Ah, we’ve prepared the Ducal Suite for you, milord,”
Greiryn said, waving a hand down the central hallway. “It’s just ahead there; that door where the servants are waiting.”
“I must see to its suitability, and theirs,” Lord Jalanus said in a voice that managed to combine equal parts irritation at having to deal with dunderheads and gloomy anticipation of personal hardship and disappointment to come. He drew a slim, shiny black wand from his belt with a flourish, and marched off down the hall.
His servants streamed after him, pushing past Glarasteer Rhauligan on both sides. The merchant staggered first to the left then to the right under their bruising impacts, then shrugged and thrust out his foot, sending a heavily-laden servant crashing on to his face. Deftly he snatched up two carrychests from the chaos that had been the servant’s high-stacked load, and joined the general rush down the hall. A ragged shout followed him, and as he turned to enter the Ducal Suite, an angry hand plucked at his sleeve.
“Hey, now, you—”
“Come, come, man,” Rhauligan said grandly, “make yourself useful. Lord Wetterbottom seems to have brought no end of clobber with him up the short road from Suzail. Stir yourself to carry some of it, as I have!”
“You—”
Greiryn’s face swung into view, lit with fury, and over his shoulder looked Lord Jalanus, boredom and withering scorn now vying for supremacy on his features.
“Merchant!” the seneschal snapped, “surrender those chests at once! I’ll have you thrown out of the Hall—with coachwhips!—if you aren’t gone by the time our esteemed guest is settled! Do you hear?”
“Along with everyone in southern Cormyr,” Rhauligan murmured mildly, extending his arms and dropping both chests on the highly-polished toes of Greiryn’s best boots. “But to hear, I fear, is not always to obey.”
“It is among servants at court,” the War Wizard sneered as Immult Greiryn uttered a strangled shriek, bending over to clutch at his toes.
Rhauligan gave him a broad smile. “That’s not what
Vangey—oh, the Lord Vangerdahast to you, no doubt—is always complaining to me. Why, ”