“Speak,” said Vangerdahast.
“Gondegal is gone,” she replied, almost chirping.
“Gone? How so?”
“Vanished, faded away, evaporated with the summer dew,” the spy said happily.
“How comes this to you?” asked Vangerdahast.
“Through one of his captains,” said the girl, “or rather, one of the sword captains he left behind. Gondegal, a half dozen of his closest aides, and the treasure he’s pillaged for the past three months, all have suddenly gone missing from the Citadel. The surviving captains have their collective undergarments in the proverbial knot over this, but for all their hunting about the city, uproof and downcellar, there is no sign of their heroic master.”
“And what are their plans in the absence of their leader?” asked Vangerdahast, smiling in the darkness.
“The mages who allied themselves with Gondegal have already left the city by their own powers. The remaining leadership is split, but the larger faction supports freeing the Marliirs to plead for mercy with the king on their behalf.”
Vangerdahast patted his wide belly with both hands. “Return to the city, then, and pass this message on to the Marliirs: There will be a general amnesty, provided the gates are thrown open to the king at the first approach of his forces. Gondegal’s men should be waiting, unarmored and unarmed, at the base of the Citadel. The king will pardon all who are there but hunt down the rest to their deaths. Can you get that message back?”
“Without a doubt,” said the spy. “I go.”
“In good fortune,” the wizard murmured and watched her fade back into the darkness. His eyes never could follow her far. Gazing into the night, Vangerdahast permitted himself a broad smile.
Then, mastering his face and emotions, he turned and strode back to the king’s pavilion.
As before, Gondegal had chosen to run rather than fight. But this time he’d left a city behind, a city that would laud the arriving king as a savior and forever crush the bandit king’s hopes for an empire. Not a bad little war. Mabel regained and its loyalty ensured for the next generation, with not a drop of blood shed.
They’d have to check with the outriders, of course, but the wizard believed his spy. There would be no report of any horsemen fleeing the city, no signs of any foul play among Gondegal’s supporters, no bodies turning up mysteriously. And in the morning, they’d form up as planned, in full array, and go ahead-but instead of death and falling walls, the gates to Mabel would be swung wide, and the city would be spared. The king would get flowers instead of swords.
But best to tell Azoun alone about this, the wizard reasoned. If a surrender did not occur, the army of Cormyr would have to proceed with the attack. Men braced to fight would respond well to celebration, but men expecting a surrender would not be ready for battle.
Vangerdahast’s route took him through the wide circle of outward-facing Purple Dragons, who passed him through with silent nods of recognition. He proceeded around the pavilion and along the back of the king’s private tent. The low light within cast the shadow of the royal occupant onto the canvas-no, two occupants’ shadows, sithouettes moving and merging. Through the tent walls, he heard gasps, heavy breathing, and soft sighs.
The wizard cursed to himself. Even on the eve of battle, in the middle of an armed camp, Azoun could not keep his Obarskyr blood from boiling over. There had been enough misadventures over the years to teach any king a little prudence, but the hardheaded kings of Cormyr never seemed able to care about the danger inherent in trysts.
Vangerdahast circled the tent. A single guard was posted before the hoop-arch tunnel that led to its door.
The noise and shadows were not obvious from this side, facing the crowded camp, and the wizard thanked Tymora for the king’s good sense-or blind luck-in choosing his bedroll spot. The guard was fresh-faced and young, a new conscript from some country town.
“Tell the king to contact me as soon as he is done,” the Royal Magician said in a loud, brisk voice, then lowered his tones and added, “And see that the young woman is escorted quickly and quietly from the campground as well.”
The youngster goggled at the elder wizard as if he had suddenly spoken of flying dogs.
“Done?” asked the youth, his voice cracking. “His Majesty was retiring for the evening and dismissed me from his quarters. There was no woman there then, and none have passed me since!”
Vangerdahast looked at the boy but could discern no lie on that set, firm, loyal face. He peered to the right, and the guard turned to look that way as well. With a snarl, the wizard brushed past the guard on his left, and the confused youngster snapped a quick protest and then trotted into the tent after the wizard’s fast-moving back.
The king’s personal sleeping quarters were at the back of the tent, behind a fabric screen that muffled both sound and light. The wizard burst through these and cursed at the sight.
King Azoun was lying on the raised divan he always used on campaign, his armor and robes both set aside. Astride him was a woman who wore an open red gown and not much else. She had one hand raised-and that hand bore a bone dagger, ready to plunge into the king’s chest.
Vangerdahast’s curse slid into a snapped spell-simple magic, quickly effected. A gust of air filled the tent, booming its sides outward and hurling the red wizardess from her perch.
The wizardess was on her feet in a moment with the grace of a panther, backing away from the divan toward the edges of the tent, keeping Azoun between herself and the wizard. The young guard had the presence of mind to snatch at his belt whistle and sound an alert.
“A murder is foiled,” said the wizardess, “but a greater theft has been made.” She put her hands on her hips and smiled at Vangerdahast. “Tell your king that Thay thanks him for his gift.”
Vangerdahast pointed at the woman, and spears of blue fire lanced out at her. She shouted some brief words, then became a swirling, fading mist. The magical missiles scorched tent fabric or seared grass, and shouts arose from the guards.
Suddenly angry Purple Dragons with swords in their hands were running into the tent from all directions, shouting, “The king! The king!”
A sudden, silent flash of light made them halt and blink. Its source was the belt of the Royal Magician.
“Men of Cormyr!” he snapped. “I order you, in the name of Azoun, to stop trampling the king’s gear and forthwith search the camp and the grounds around, moving out as far and as fast as your legs can carry you. Look for a sorceress in a red gown, bring her back alive if you can, but bring her back. A Thayvian-tall, barefoot, long black hair! Take custody of any woman in camp that you do not recognize as one of this company, bring all such to the pavilion. Go!”
They’d find nothing, Vangerdahast knew, but at least their departure would let him get a look at Azoun before it might be too late. Men in armor streamed around the wizard for a moment, and then he was alone with the king.
Azoun seemed unharmed, but mazed in his mind, not seeing the wizard bent over him and mumbling when shaken. The effects of a magical charm.
Vangerdahast touched the brow of his sovereign with his fingertips and muttered words that should unwind any spell in the Thayvian arsenal.
King Azoun IV grunted, grimaced, and grabbed at his forehead. The shattering of his thrall apparently bestowed a cranial punishment akin to a hangover.
“What-what happened?” the king muttered, blinking in the lantern light.
“A Thayvian assassin,” Vangerdahast announced. “She’s been driven off.”
“She?” asked the king, frowning. Then, slowly, he nodded. “She. Yes! She appeared out of nowhere, all shimmering robes and soft scents. She had a name. Brandy? Brannon? I thought she was a dream.”
“A nightmare,” Vangerdahast replied softly.
The king shook his head firmly. “I hate assassins. Apparently clearing out the Fire Knives was not enough. When we are done here, we’re going to have to outlaw assassins. And Red Wizards to boot!”
“But we’re not done here,” said the wizard softly, spreading a blanket over the tired monarch and calling to mind a spell of magical purification and another of shielding. “First Gondegal and Arabel. Then we’ll take on Red Wizards and assassins. We’ll take on anything that threatens the crown or Cormyr, whatever its origin. Trust me on this.”
The king smiled sleepily. “Good old Vangey. Trust me “
“Trust me on this,” said the fat wizard, his voice carrying the strength of iron. “As always.”
