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! ”
Agannor and Bey exchanged glances and shrugged.
“I like to look behind curtains,” Agannor said, clapping a wary hand to sword hilt.
The hearty din of the Lion continued unabated as the four rose together-the tavernmaster bustling up with a nod and smile to cast his apron over the table to signify that it was still claimed-and made for the rear of the taproom.
The two Swords were almost surprised to discover no men waiting for them with knives or clubs, but a low- lanterned alcove with two well-padded cots.
Kestra and Taeriana were affectionate, eager, and had their tongues in the ears of Agannor and Bey within a breath of sitting down on the cots together.
A breath later, both Swords stiffened as cold and slimy mindworms rode those warmly darting tongues into their heads.
Then, of course, Horaundoon’s spell hit them.
Lord Maniol Crownsilver stared blearily at the ceiling for a long time before his mazed mind told him that it was a ceiling, and was in fact his own.
Faces were bending over him. Drawn and sour faces. Holy men.
“You’re healed, Lord,” one told him. “We’ll leave you now.”
The priests filed out, leaving Maniol blinking up from his bed at other, frowning men who’d been standing behind them: war wizards, dark and terrible still in his mind, their cold voices thrusting like sharp blades into his innermost secrets, his private reveries…
He turned his face away, knowing hatred and fear were all over it. After the lass who’d led them had departed, these mages had hurled their spells into his mind, uncaring of his grief, hounding him from misery into senselessness.
Misbegotten goat-whoring bastards.
“So just what was it you wanted to say to me, young forester?” Myrmeen Lhal gave Florin a smile, and indicated an empty chair at her table.
Florin remained standing, suddenly hesitant. What was he doing here? This woman was of the king’s lords, a hardened, keen-witted veter Something warm smiled inside his head, and he let that smile take over his lips.
“Lady Lord,” he heard himself saying, “until this day I’d never met a woman I could admire more than…”
Lorbryn looked down at the shattered nobleman and traded sighs with Jalander Mallowglar. Lord Crownsilver was guilty of nothing more than being an arrogant fool and boor-and he’d loved his wife far more than Cormyr had thought he did.
“Mages,” the man said, rolling over to fix them with burning eyes that trailed tears down his unlovely face, “help me find my jewel-my Narantha! Please!”
Well, why not?
Lorbryn leaned forward. “We’ve been watching over her closely for some time, Lord. She’s just arrived at the house of the Creths, in Arabel.”
Crownsilver shook his head, bewildered. “Whatever’s she doing there? ”
Jalander gazed across the room at the Crownsilver arms, gaudily emblazoned on a tapestry, and told them, “We believe she’s seeking a husband, Lord. She’s been visiting many young noble lords, all across the realm.”
“What?” Maniol sat up, slack-jawed in horror. “Doesn’t she know I’ll pick her husband? Uh- hem — myself and the lad’s father, of course!”
“Of course,” Lorbryn echoed, unable to entirely keep contempt out of his voice.
“Well,” Lord Maniol snarled, not noticing, “at least she’s over that foolishness of wedding Falconfoot, or whatever he is, of the Swords of Eveningstar breaknecks! Where are they, anyway?”
“In Arabel,” Jalander said, with some satisfaction.
“ What? I must get to her!” Lord Crownsilver’s howl was comical. “And you, ” he spat, scrambling up off the bed and wagging an imperious finger at the wizards, “must arrest those Swords at once!”
Wizard of War Tathanter Doarmond, who’d been listening from the doorway, announced grandly, “We’ll send her to you, Lord Crownsilver. I trust you’ll be pleased to learn the Swords are under arrest right now.”
“Gods be thanked!” Maniol Crownsilver exulted, reaching his decanter-adorned sideboard and filling a goblet.
“To the watching gods!” he made offering, holding the goblet on high. Slamming the flaming fortified wine down on the sideboard, Crownsilver caught up its decanter again, grinned fiercely at the dark-robed wizards-and drained the entire vessel in one long quaff.
Reeling back to the bed, he sank down onto it, still clutching the empty decanter, called out, “Victory at last!”-and promptly sank back into insensibility.
The war wizards looked down at him.
“Nobles,” Jalander said in disgust. “And they think we’re unfit to be anywhere near the service of Cormyr!”
Lorbryn nodded. “Some of us are. But at least we know it.”
“ Out, clumsy gallant,” Myrmeen Lhal said with a smirk. “I’m not one of your husband-hunting Esparran lasses. Take your good looks and come-kiss-me smile elsewhere. Lad. ”
Florin stared at her, his hopes of winning some favor and leeway for the Swords falling in shards around him. He felt-stunned.
What had gotten into him? Of course she thought of him as a boy who had nothing to offer her but smilingly insulting effrontery…
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring at her in horror. “I’m so sorry. I’ve insulted you beyond all honor, and-gods, Lady Lord, I’m sorry.” He sank to his knees, despairing. What had he Firm fingers took hold of his ear and pulled, hauling him painfully-and in great startlement-up to his feet, to stagger nose-to-nose with the Lady Lord of Arabel. Who was smiling almost fondly.
“Flog yourself not,” she told him. “You were, at least, flattering and entertaining. Idiot.” She kissed the tip of his nose, then turned him around by his ear. “Now, out! ”
