Hordree was the third man Horaundoon had ridden for days on end without harming him all that much. He was learning.
Mastering his rage at what had been stolen from him, and learning to control humans rather than just drain them. Growing comfortable with being a wraithlike spirit, and starting to see the possibilities of his new existence.
Mindworms and stolen elven spells were behind him.
Nobles, adventurers, and royalty in Cormyr were just playthings, and he was past all that now.
No fearful, skulking retirement in hiding awaited him. No hargaunt and no fear of being hunted at Manshoon’s orders.
Why, if he went about things deftly and patiently, he could well slay all of his former rivals in the Zhentarim, by drinking their very lives. Lathalance and Sarhthor, Eirhaun Sooundaeril… and Manshoon himself.
Yes.
After all these years, if he kept well hidden-and who would be looking for “dead by his own hand” Horaundoon? — he could finally dare to strike at Manshoon.
Destroying Manshoon… now that would be true power.
“Well met, Dragon,” Dove said, as King Azoun strode back into the room. “You’ve been told all?”
Azoun nodded. “I have, and I thank you. We still have two daughters this night because of you.”
“Because of Florin Falconhand,” Dove corrected him. She looked at Queen Filfaeril. “I must leave you now, I’m afraid. Other business”-one of her fingers brushed her harp-shaped belt buckle for an instant, a momentary gesture unseen by Laspeera or Margaster through the intervening royal bodies-“presses me sorely. So you must guard your own princesses.”
Azoun gave her another grim nod. As he stepped forward to clasp her hand, he asked, “Margaster?”
The old war wizard bowed. “My king?”
Azoun waved at the sleeping Alusair. “The Dragondown Chambers?”
The war wizard nodded.
“Both Tana and Luse,” Azoun added. “Stay with them as much as you can. And you can put my lasses into spell-sleep for a year if you deem it needful-just don’t let them run off!”
The war wizard bowed again, looking grave.
Though it was dark enough in the shadow of the Hullack Forest to foil the eyes of most humans, it seemed that there were more trees around Lord Prester Yellander’s hunting lodge this night than usual-and that some of those trees were moving.
A patient eye would have eventually identified those extra dark trunks as the torsos of bodyguards. Many, many bodyguards, standing staring out into the night and listening intently for sounds of anyone approaching.
Those veteran swordjacks could hear nothing from inside the thick log walls of the hunting lodge, despite the relative quiet of small night sounds in the forest and their own breathing, because the three men inside all wore multiple magecloak magics on their persons. Enough to foil even the most intent war wizard scrying.
Which was a good thing, because every word of their converse was dark treason.
Chapter 7
So much magic lies hidden in Cormyr
That I scarce know where to begin.
Darlock’s six tasked spirits
The Crown of the Slayer
The Hunting Blade
The Door Into Nowhere
The wandering cloaks of wyvernshape
And dead Emmaera Dragonfire
Who left so many silent flying swords
To guard her enchanted bones
And I’ve but begun the list.
There are all the tombs of the nobles, yet.
The table between the three lords was small. If it hadn’t been for the metal goblets between them, their knuckles could easily have touched.
Lord Maniol Crownsilver stared across that small distance at Yellander and Eldroon, and said quietly, “I believe all Cormyr knows my very good reason for hating the Knights of Myth Drannor and wanting to see them meet swift and brutal dooms. Lords, may I know yours?”
The two lords across the table exchanged glances, Yellander gave the briefest of nods, and Lord Blundebel Eldroon leaned forward to explain calmly, “We’re furious at the Knights for shattering a means of income that brought us each more than a thousand-thousand golden lions a year.”
Crownsilver blinked. “Might, ah, I know how any noble of Cormyr manages to make such sums without all the realm knowing about it?”
“Smuggling,” Eldroon said simply. “Scarce or banned goods that command high coin, and upon which we pay not a copper thumb in taxes. The scarce wares include certain wines and scents much sought-after by many nobly born-and even more avidly by the wealthiest merchants of Suzail; those desperate to show the kingdom that they’re either worthy of ennoblement, or are wealthy and powerful enough that they can have what we nobles have.”
“And the banned goods?”
“Poisons and certain drugs prohibited under Crown law. Thaelur, laskran, blackmask, behelshrabba-that sort of thing.”
“I have heard of thaelur, and that it has something to do with pleasure,” Lord Crownsilver said slowly, lifting his eyebrows in a clear request for information.
“Thaelur comes from the beast-cities of the South,” Eldroon obliged. “It gives a sensation of intense bodily pleasure, and short-lived freedom from pains in the joints, but each dose does damage. Frequent users lose years off their lives. Hence its illicit status.”
“We concern ourselves not with the uses to which others put goods, but merely with the business of moving such goods around,” Lord Yellander put in. “Untaxed and expensive goods in, and certain shipments out-which is to say shipping done for those who pay us highly enough.”
Crownsilver frowned. “Slavers?”
“Nothing so crass, man.” Eldroon’s drawl held irritation. “Dealers in pickled cadavers and body parts, thieves who want jewels they’ve stolen from nobles out of the realm in a hurry, that sort of thing.”
“The Knights fought from end to end of our warehouse in Arabel. What with all the Zhentarim, war wizard, and Purple Dragon scrutiny since, our business-which flowed through that building-is in shambles.”
Crownsilver frowned. “Can you not use another warehouse? It’s not as though you haven’t coins enough to buy dozens of them!”
“Coins don’t move a portal elves created long before there was a Cormyr,” Eldroon grunted, “and it’s that portal in that warehouse-with its other end on the far side of yon mountains-our wares move through.”
“By the way,” Yellander purred pleasantly, lifting a fluted decanter to refill all three goblets, “speak of this to anyone, Maniol, and you’ll die.” He took up his own full goblet, sipped appreciatively, and added matter-of-factly, “ Very slowly, and screaming in agony. We have the poisons to make very sure of that.”
