Stormlight

of guards in a different livery: an arc of three golden stars on a field of deep blue. The Summerstar armsmen, no doubt.

'Lady Summerstar and Sir Boldshield,' Broglan Sarmyn was growling, 'may I present to you the Sevensash investigative team, sent to you at the express command of Lady Laspeera of the wizards of war, on the instructions of the royal magician of the realm-upon consultations with His Majesty.'

'Sevensash?' the cold-eyed, imperious old noblewoman drawled. 'I see only six men.'

She left a little silence, and turned to face Broglan, raising her eyebrows to bid him fill it. Gods, but she was beautiful. Beautiful like ice. Used to getting her own way in everything, this one, and dressed like the queen herself at a high court function, for all her sixty or more winters, and the minor-nay, unknown-stature of her house.

'We are, in fact, one member short, gracious lady,' Broglan said smoothly, 'though the name bestowed on us does not, in fact, refer to our number.'

'And your missing man?' The bitingly bored tone made it clear that the Dowager Lady Summerstar cared not a whit for the fate of the absent wizard-only for how much she could make those present grovel and squirm.

'Ah-a woman, actually, lady, and at present engaged in giving birth….'

'Congratulations,' the Lady Pheirauze Summerstar replied with a cold little smile. She turned away before Broglan could even begin to protest that he wasn't the father.

Someone in the line of wizards snickered. Someone else was thinking that this old noblewoman was just perhaps a colder bitch than their absent colleague, Chalantra. Just perhaps.

They all watched the noblewoman walk away across the courtyard, her back as straight as a sword blade. The sway of her hips made more than one of her audience think again of her beauty, before Broglan turned briskly to the boldshield and said, 'Ah-shall I present my mages to you, then?'

The solid, side-whiskered old Purple Dragon officer allowed just the slightest crook of a smile to creep onto one end of his mouth. 'Suppose you do that, Sir Broglan. I know who you are, and you'd best know that I am Ergluth Rowanmantle, boldshield of the district of Northtrees March. I report directly to Baron Thomdor, warden of the Eastern Marches.'

The boldshield's eagle-sharp eyes turned to look in the direction the old noblewoman had gone. 'The lady you have all just-briefly-met is Lady Pheirauze, the matriarch of House Summerstar. The true family heir is her granddaughter, the Lady Shayna Summerstar, and the nominal head of the house is the other Dowager Lady Summerstar: mother to Shayna and daughter-in-law of Lady Pheirauze.'

'That's Zarova Summerstar, is it not?' Broglan asked. 'Who was born a Battlestar?'

The boldshield inclined his head in a nod. 'That's right. In the absence of an heir who's been presented to the king, however, the master of this keep is its seneschal, whom you'll meet shortly. I'll leave him to introduce himself, but I'd best know your muster.'

'So you can put names to the bodies, if need be,' Broglan said, repeating the old joke.

The boldshield did not smile. 'That's right.'

The overwizard coughed, tried on an uneasy smile, and then growled, 'Well, then: you see before you-in order, down our line-Hundarr of the Wolfwinter noble house.' He looked to a tall, sharp-featured mage whose elegantly cut black hair was shot through with streaks of white. The mage inclined his head in a greeting every bit as haughty as the looks the Dowager Lady Summerstar had been dispensing.

'Lhansig Dlaerlin.' A short, burly man with a broad face and an easy smile sketched a flippant, one-handed salute, his eyes mocking. The boldshield's level stare cut into those mocking eyes like two cold lance points, but made no change in their dark twinkling.

'Corathar Abaddarh.' This mage was young, thin-lipped, and wintry-eyed, so eager to impress that he practically quivered, like a dog leaping to be let off the leash. He'd struck a dramatic pose, of course-and, as he felt the boldshield's eagle-eyed scrutiny fall upon him, he shifted rather self-consciously to another.

'Insprin Turnstone, recently transferred to us from Vangerdahast's personal Enforcers.' An older wizard steadily met the boldshield's gaze, and nodded, as one to an equal. His face was weather-beaten, his eyes were the color of dull steel, and his black hair-what little he still had-had almost all gone gray.

Ah, yes, Ergluth thought. A pair of eyes and ears for the royal magician, put into this group before its ambitious younglings took it right out of control. He returned the thin old man's nod, almost smiling. He could tell that a similarly knowing, not-quite smile lurked just below Turnstone's cheeks, too.

'Murndal Claeron.' He was a darkly handsome man with a close-trimmed mustache and the sort of beard that puts two little corners to the chin before slicing up to join the sideburns. He had glistening brown eyes and a half-smile. Trouble. As ambitious as a hungry snake, and probably possessed of the same tactics.

'And, of course, myself.' The boldshield swung his eyes back to Broglan Sarmyn. He was of average height and build. His hair was the hue of mud and going thin on top. It turned grizzled gray in his large but carefully trimmed sideburns, the man's only touch of visible personal style. Permanent worry lines creased a high forehead, and a touch of grimness hovered about the mouth. His robes were a year or two behind high fashion.

Ergluth knew Broglan's sort: a man uneasy in court society but decisive behind closed doors and out among the common folk. A good teacher who adopted the pose of the gruff, growling bear favored by so many swordcaptains of the Purple Dragons. A good man-principled, and with a love of the realm.

The others … well, more love of self and of mayhem than anything else, if he was any judge. A murderer loose in the keep, and we're adding these?

The boldshield gave them all a grave smile, and said loudly, half-turning toward his own men and the other armsmen in the courtyard, 'Be welcome in Firefall Keep. May your mission meet with success. His Majesty has every confidence in you, and so do we all. Do not hesitate to call upon me, or any of my men, should you require aid.' Then he turned fully to face the ranked guards, and barked, 'Dismissed!'

The armsmen scattered like so many disturbed pigeons, clearing the cobbles in a whirl of weapons and trotting feet and jingling harnesses. The boldshield turned back to the wizards. 'If you'd like, I'll conduct you to your quarters, where you may ease the rigors of so long a coach journey. You can meet with the seneschal before evenfeast, if you prefer.'

'That would be acceptable,' Broglan said with a smile, and turned to the other mages. The look in his hazel- gray eyes was a clear and cold command to utter not one word more until they were alone; smart comments about bucketheads in armor or rude backwaters would be neither appreciated nor received without cold rewards.

The rooms were dark-paneled, gloomy, and cold, like those in many a castle. Still, they were probably quite opulent by the standards of this place. Pelts had been laid in profusion across the threadbare patches in the carpet, until the floor seemed a deep, yielding grassland under their boots. A row of doors led into private sleeping- chambers; Broglan raised his brows at this unexpected luxury, and made the silent gesture that bid the mages examine unknown territory for dangers. They curtly ordered the servants standing by their heaped baggage to begone, and began to roam about, peering under things and casting detection spells, listening here and sniffing there.

Not long afterward, they reassembled around Broglan. 'Nothing,' Lhansig muttered.

'A passage behind that wall, not far off,' Hundarr said, pointing, 'but probably not intended for. . stealthy scrutiny.'

'Concealed servants' door there,' Insprin said, 'and an old dweomer-probably a warning magic mouth.'

Broglan nodded. 'We won't worry about that. Any other dweomers?'

Heads shook in silent negatives. Their leader sighed, and said, 'I'm sure you noticed the baths, and after Insprin and I are done, you can all enjoy them in order of age. Next time, we'll reverse the order. No griping-they seem plenty hot right now.' He reached for his belt, and said, 'Choose your rooms; they all seem the same. Now, Murndal-tell me in brief what should interest us most about this mission.'

Every inch the careful pupil, the handsome Claeron stroked one arm of his maroon silk overrobe, and said, 'We have two murders, and reports from presumably competent priests that the bodies can't be raised, spoken with, or magically read in any way. They seem burned out from within, and utterly dead and lost to magic-worse than stones, which can at least be made to tell us something. Whoever did it, we want to find out how … or Cormyr, and Faerun in general, may have far larger dooms upon them than merely two killings.'

Broglan nodded in satisfaction, his face momentarily losing a little of its worried look. 'I could not have put it any better. The manner of death is exactly our prime concern-though we should not, of course, admit that to anyone. Officially, we are here because the security of the realm demands that the death of any noble be investigated-and the violent death of any heir brings wizards of war to the scene.