“Accepted,” was the curt reply.
Baerlothur of Suzail glared up at the Purple Dragon. “So you’ve had your apology, and I ask this: who are you, Dragon, to draw sword on a honest goodman of Cormyr?”
The grim man in armor met his glare with cold, level eyes, and raised his voice so it could be heard right across the forechamber. “Rhauligan is my name. Sir Glarasteer Rhauligan, if you want to get it right when you complain. I’m here to scour out this inn.”
” ‘Scour out?’ What by the Dragon Throne d’you mean by that?”
That angry query came from a hard-faced woman who’d hastened out of an inner room to stand uncertainly beyond the ring of Purple Dragons.
Rhauligan turned to face her. “Rythra Matcham? Keeper of this inn?”
There were murmurs of surprise from the far corners of the forechamber and the woman replied, “Yes—and yes, since my Rorth died fighting beside the king these two months gone. How is it that you know my name?”
“The Court is not without its eyes and ears, Goodlady Matcham. I am sent here not to do anyone harm, if I find no need—but my orders are to be obeyed as if they came from the Royal Magician himself. My task is to see that this inn is safe for the Steel Regent to lodge in this night—safe from fire, from spell, and from drawn blade.”
Rythra Matcham gaped at him as if he’d grown a second head from his shoulders; the head of Azoun IV, smiling at her with his crown on, and all. “I-uh-I—”
Rhauligan smiled at her. “The Crown will pay in good gold, of course. Plenty of it. There’ll be Rorth’s last pay and burial-price on top of that, too.”
Rythra reeled, her face suddenly pale, and he threw out a hand to steady her.
She clutched it like tightening iron for just a moment, then threw back her head, drew in a deep breath, and said loudly, “I am honored. Command me in all ways, that this house be made fitting!”
Murmurs arose and grew as half the Hultailen who’d been idling over broth or ale at various tables in the forechamber hastened to finish and go out to tell all the village.
“End your spell, War Wizard,” a female voice ordered firmly from behind Rhauligan. He whirled around.
A lone woman in leathers was standing behind him, a slender long sword in one hand and a dagger raised for throwing ready in the other. The point of her blade was right against the throat of one of the Purple Dragons who was really a War Wizard—and her dagger and gaze were bent on the other disguised mage.
“And who are yoŤ, lady?” Rhauligan asked, a little wearily.
“Sharantyr is my name. I am a Knight of Myth Drannor.”
Rhauligan sighed. “And I suppose you have your charter with you, adventurer?”
“No. Azoun told us we need no longer carry it.”
“Lady,” Rhauligan said carefully, “Azoun is dead.”
“Alusair knows me and will confirm my right of arms,” was the calm reply. The sword twitched. “Enrfyour spell, mage!”
Rhauligan sighed and made a little signal to the War Wizard, directing the man to do just that. This was obviously going to be a long day.
“Lady Sharantyr, are you staying here at the Sixcandles?”
“I am. And yes, before you ask, I’ll walk with you and keep myself under your eye.”
Eyeing her wry half-smile, Rhauligan sighed again. Yes, it was getting longer already.
* * * * *
The stables smelled like stables always did and looked the part, too. However, the Sixcandles horsehouse lacked the proverbial amorous couple in the end stall—featuring instead a wild-haired, dirty-faced youth who was glaring at Rhauligan over his dungfork. “You really a Highknight?”
“Now where,” Rhauligan asked patiently, “did you hear that?”
“Old Andur told me Highknights’re the only Purple Dragons as can order about War Wizards.”
“Old Andur, whoever he is,” Rhauligan said shortly, “talks too much.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” the stableboy spat at him, “being as he’s my father—and stands right behind you, now, with his fork ready at yer neck!”
Rhauligan hurled himself to one side before turning, straw crackling around him—then saw he need not have moved at all.
The scarred old veteran who’d been introduced to him as the stablemaster at Sixcandles was indeed right behind him, pitchfork raised to stab, and was straining vainly to move it, sweating and furious, in the grip of the lady ranger in leathers, who stood just behind him.
“Drop it, Andur,” she said softly. “Or have you forgotten the price of slaying an officer of the Court?”
With a bark of wordless fury, the stablemaster let go of his fork. It bounced against his shins painfully as Sharantyr released him, leaving Andur to stumble forward and clutch at his numbed arms.
“Damn you, woman!” he panted in pain. “May all the Watching Gods damn you!”
“They already have. I’m an adventurer, remember?”
“So much anger,” Rhauligan said, looking from father to son. “Prudence tells me to chain the pair of you to some very distant tree and put courtiers to running the stables this night. So tell me why I should not.”
Both men glared at him, breathing heavily, ere Andur growled, “I’m a good horse-master, and whatever hate I hold for anyone, I’ll not take it out on their horses, nor let flame take my living from me, neither! This stables is mine, and I’ll keep it right well! Knight, you can trust me that far!”
Rhauligan met his gaze. “I believe that.” He turned to the son. “So, lad, your father hates enough to think about putting his fork through me, a man he’s never met before. DoyoŤ hate anything that much?”
The stableboy gave him a puzzled look. “Uh… no.”
“So why give me angry eyes, the moment I step in here?”
The lad reddened, looked down in vain hope his questioner might go away if left unregarded, then muttered, “You come here all high-an’-mighty orders, strutting about growling this and snapping that, and the hope of the realm is gone and swept away. What life lies ahead for me?”
Rhauligan nodded, then turned back to Andur. “You were a Purple Dragon, yet stood ready to fell me. Why? What fury lives in you?”
If his son had been red, Andur was almost black with anger and shame. Black and shaking.
“When my lord Azoun needed me this spring, I got down my old sword and went,” he snapped, biting off each word as if grudging its use. “Off to the wars, with my master Rorth, like the old days. He, and lots more like him, died for our king—and we’d do it again! But he’s gone now, gone down fighting, and who’s Cormyr left with? His slut of a second daughter, with all her loose ways! I despair, Highknight. I despair for our fair land under her rule.”
He’d picked up his fork, but now turned and handed it to Sharantyr, adding, “So cut me down for my treasonous words and let me not live to see fair Cormyr dragged down into darkness.”
Rhauligan sighed. “I kill no one for their opinions.” He shook his head and added, “So long as you can manage to be at least civil to the princess, if you speak to her.”
“I’ll use my tongue and not my fork, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” Rhauligan sighed again and turned away. “I hope Goodlady Matcham can find it in herself to be more welcoming than you are.”
“I doubt it,” Andur growled. “She blames Rorth’s death on Alusair’s dashing about the backlands waving a blade instead of standing beside the king that day. She might just spit and claw at her Majesty on first sight, instead of showing her to her room.”
Rhauligan rolled his eyes. A very long day.
* * * * *
The revealed War Wizards no longer bothered to hide their magic and had crafted a careful spell to wet the roads just enough to quell the dust but not bring mud. Wherefore all assembled Hultail could clearly see the score of riders urging their mounts from trot to canter, to arrive at the Sixcandles porch in high style.