Sound traveled oddly in these passages, but over the years she’d learned where some of the echoes carried. She slowed at one such place-and froze to listen intently when she heard faint murmurings, and a muffled bang. Then another.
Doors closing, and voices. Down here where there could quite likely be courtiers and servants conferring or stowing things, or even dragging forth extra chairs and tables-but not without someone contacting the duty guardian on this level. Her.
She stalked forward, knowing those sounds had to be coming from around that corner, up ahead.
“Lady Highknight,” she murmured to herself, starting to smile, “may you enjoy good hunting.”
War Wizard Hallowhar crumpled to the floor like a discarded cloak, and the courtier who’d felled her turned in frantic haste and fled-less than an armlength beyond the Purple Dragon blade thrust out to bar his way.
“Kaerlyn, get him! ” the ranking Dragon snapped, sweating under Rellond Blacksilver’s swift and deft bladework. The rake had seemed but half alive when stumbling along, moments ago, but he seemed like Toril’s greatest swordsman now! Gods preserve!
Frantically First Sword Brelketh Velkrorn caught Blacksilver’s blade on the quillons of his own, the length of a finger away from its plunging into his face, and fought to hold it back. Blacksilver laughed coldly and then stepped back-and deftly drove his sword into an exposed-for-an-instant gap in the armor of the telsword trying to get past him and chase down the courtier.
Telsword Arnden Kaerlyn groaned, twisted in a vain attempt to parry as Blacksilver’s blade pulled back, dark and wet with his own blood-and then went down with a startled squeal as the noble feinted at his face but then thrust in again at the same spot, far deeper.
Leaving First Sword Velkrorn staring over Blacksilver’s shoulder at the distant figure of the courtier turning a corner, and vanishing.
“Damn you!” Velkrorn roared-as the noble’s blade came back at him again, whirling and darting in a web of bright thrustings that had him parrying frantically. He threw himself to one side of the passage to force Blacksilver to turn, hoping to drive him into a stumble-and the moment the noble turned to engage him, he hurled himself back again.
The third time, it worked. Blacksilver swayed, waved his free arm wildly to try to keep his balance-and Velkrorn caught the noble’s blade on his own, forced it to one side, got one boot around behind Blacksilver’s leg, and shoved hard.
Well and truly tripped, Rellond Blacksilver went over backward, arms waving helplessly, and crashed to the floor. Velkrorn jumped on him, slamming both knees down hard, one on the noble’s sword arm and the other in his stomach.
Winded, Blacksilver twisted in agony, straining for breath, his sword clattering beside him. Velkrorn punched him in the face and then in the jaw-twice-thrice, slamming the noble’s head repeatedly against the passage floor until it finally lolled loosely, and he was sure Blacksilver was truly senseless.
The courtier was long gone. Disgustedly Velkrorn examined Telsword Kaerlyn. Also senseless and bleeding heavily-badly wounded but still alive. For now.
Briarhult, however…
“Dead,” Velkrorn muttered grimly to himself. “From a scratch that shouldn’t have even slowed him.” The telsword’s lips were bluish.
He turned to the war wizard. Stone dead. Her eyes were staring at nothing, her skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, and her lips were very blue.
First Sword Brelketh Velkrorn rose, trying to think of a suitable curse. Snatching up Blacksilver’s sword, he hurried off to find the nearest alarm gong.
Chapter 24
There have been good kings, and careless kings, sots and madwits and tyrannical bad kings, yet all their villainies pale against the sheer number of injustices and follies done by others in the name of the king.
'Hear that?” Islif snapped, inclining her head toward a message-pipe. A faint thunder-the clamor of hundreds of excitedly chattering folk-was spilling from it. “The revel’s beginning, or soon will be. We’re running out of time.”
“Before you ask,” Jhessail said, “I haven’t a spell to make us all fit in yon pipe and soar up it. If we’re ever going to get out of the stlarned cellars, ’tis stairs we’ll be using.”
“Those stairs are still missing,” Semoor said. “And the same paucity of relevantly helpful magic afflicts Doust and myself. So it’s going to be the old way.” He lifted one boot and waggled it, in case any of his fellow Knights had forgotten what “the old way” was.
By their weary expressions, none of them had. “We could open more doors,” Doust said, “if Pennae-”
“ Yes, holynose,” Islif replied, a little testily. “And we could save the realm if the king and queen and Vangerdahast all came strolling up to us right now. But they won’t. Waste not my time with ‘ifs.’ ”
“That,” a sharp and cold woman’s voice said out of the darkness, “sounds like a herald’s cue. I am none of the three you seek, but I know who you are: intruders. Throw down your weapons, in the name of the king!”
The woman striding down the passage toward them might have been a larger, more muscular version of Pennae. Her leathers and boots were glossy black, and her faced looked as sharp and forbidding as the sword gleaming in her hand.
Yet she was sleek, and moved like a tavern dancer. Set against to her grace and curves, Islif Lurelake looked like a man. A red-faced, work-stained farmer, with her smudged face and tangled hair.
“You invoke the king’s name too?” Islif shook her head, taking a step nearer the approaching woman. “Why don’t you throw yours down, at the same time, and we’ll talk? I’m seeking the king, as it happens, and the queen too. Not to mention Royal Magician Vangerdahast and two fellow Knights of ours, who got separated from us down here by some sort of falling iron barrier-”
The woman in leathers lifted her voice to override Islif’s. “I believe I heard myself give you a clear command, brigands!”
“Say not ‘brigands,’ but ‘Crown-chartered adventurers and Knights of the Realm,’ ” Islif corrected her sharply. “And I do believe I heard myself offer you a suggestion.”
They stared bleakly at each other in silence for a moment before Islif added calmly, “As far as I’m concerned-as you haven’t bothered to identify yourself-your authority doesn’t apply to us. I see a woman in leathers, alone, running around down here in the dark with a drawn sword in her hand; obviously a thief or hired slayer. So I believe I’ll now command your surrender, in the name of King Azoun of Cormyr, fourth of that name.”
“And Queen Filfaeril, our personal patron,” Jhessail added, stepping to one side so as to cast spells freely.
“And have you proof of this patronage?” The woman sneered, putting a hand on her hip, among all the sheathed daggers and pouches there.
“Have you a name at all, to be asking us such things?” Semoor Wolftooth asked sharply. “We’ve met with Purple Dragons high and low-and war wizards, likewise-and seldom encountered such lofty arrogance. Being highnosed with strangers is my failing. You’re not an Obarskyr… so who are you?”
“Rarambra Tarlgrael, Highknight of Cormyr,” the woman with the sword snapped, her eyes flashing fire. “Personally sworn to Azoun; a friend and more to me, not just my king.”
“Behold me unsurprised,” Semoor murmured. “Is there a woman south of, say, Jester’s Green that Az-”
