Arclath grinned weakly. “The charms of the mask dancer who was performing practically in our laps. I don’t think either of them have had much time recently for, ah, dalliance.”
Glathra nodded. “You,” she told the messenger beside her, as she almost snatched Halance’s note from his hands, “will accompany Lord Delcastle in finding this dancer, identifying her, and bringing her to me. I shall be back at the palace, watching you both from afar.”
Without pause she turned back to Delcastle and added crisply, “And you shall find her before you do anything else in your life, and bring her safely to me.
Delcastle sketched a florid bow. “Though I must observe that I’ve been given commands more politely in my time, I cannot find it in myself to disagree with so charming and fiercely Crown-loyal a lady. I shall obey and strive to-”
“Save it. You don’t want my old and unlovely bones in your bed anyhail,” the war wizard interrupted curtly and turned away.
Delcastle gave the messenger an almost comical look of injured innocence, shrugged, and announced grandly, “Come! We have a kingdom to save!”
He scooped a handful of gold coins from his purse and flung them on the table, turned with a swirl of his cloak, and strode for the door, the messenger on his heels.
Glathra watched them go. When they were quite gone, she allowed herself a loud sigh.
“Nobles,” she snorted. “Unruly children, every last one of them.”
She eyed the gold coins on the table. Surely he’d left enough to pay handsomely for a dozen such meals, or more.
And this one would all go to waste …
Her eyes fell on the nearest platter, just as a delicious smell of spicy, juicy, hot sausages wafted up to her.
Her stomach rumbled.
Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out.
That sausage proved to be every bit as good as it smelled, and in two ravenous bites was gone.
There were more.
Gods above, when had she last eaten?
As the serving maids drifted back into view, eyeing her doubtfully, the war wizard firmly sat down in Arclath’s still-warm chair and helped herself to the main platter.
Those sausages still beckoned, but she hadn’t had eels done properly for an age. They disdained sardragon sauce as “Marsembian glop” in the palace kitchens.
Uhmmm. They didn’t in the Eel’s kitchen.
The messenger’s name was Delnor, and he looked guilty as they sat down at Arclath’s usual table in the Dragonriders’, hesitantly darting uncertain glances this way and that.
The stages were empty, and there was no sign of even one alluring dancer, masked or otherwise. Nor anyone leering, cheering, or tossing coins. Of early morning hours, the Dragonriders’ Club offered members and their guests only tankards of strong broth and baths in scented water.
Aside from Delnor and the noble lord across from him, who was smilingly signaling that tankards be brought to them, the only patrons were a handful of drunkards and the wealthy and truly lazy, relaxing as servants-some their own and some provided by the club, but looking nothing like the sort of beautiful lasses who might at some other hour preen and pose unclad on a stage for anyone-bathed and shaved them. Delnor also saw washing, styling, and cutting of hair, and even some cleaning and mending of clothing and boots.
“So,” Arclath asked airily, “is the Lady Glathra always that much of a dragon? Or was she fond of Belnar? Or Halance?”
Delnor flinched as if he’d been slapped, flushed, then mumbled, “N-no. I think not, anyway. No. There were other … violent deaths in the palace last night. Uh, rumors abound that, ah, nobles were involved.
“ ‘Someone’?”
“Uh, Elminster the Doomed, some are saying. Or crazy old Sembian lords on their deathbeds. You know … someone.” Delnor waved a hand dismissively then dared to really look for the first time into the eyes of the noble lord sitting with him. “Just talk. You … you care about any of this?”
“I know not what your general opinion of the nobility is, friend Delnor,” Arclath Delcastle replied, “but I assure you I am indeed interested in who killed my friends.”
One of his hands went to the hilt of his sword.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The broth was good. Not to mention hot enough to burn tongues.
As the two men sipped cautiously from their tankards, Arclath’s firm demands of the serving maids were reluctantly obeyed; the owner of the club was summoned from her bed somewhere in the labyrinthine loft overhead.
Eyes hooded from the clinging edge of sleep, barefoot and clad in a very old and well-worn robe that looked as if it had once been someone’s rather magnificent carpet, Tress looked somewhat different than the vision in dark and clinging leather Arclath was used to.
She gave him a rather unfriendly look, yawned, and asked pointedly, “You required my servile presence, Lord?”
Delnor buried his face behind his tankard, trying to look as if he weren’t there. Arclath gravely tendered his apologies for rousing Tress at such an hour and asked her the name of the dancer who’d performed for him the previous evening, and if it would be possible to speak with her. Immediately.
“No,” Tress said simply. “She’s not here.”
“And her name would be-?”
“The Mysterious Dancer You Seek,” Tress announced flatly. “She’ll be performing on yon stage again at dusk tonight and thereafter until near dawn, unless trade’s too paltry to make it worth her pay.” She yawned again.
Arclath dipped into another purse-Delnor blinked; just how many did the man have, anyway? — scooped out a heaping handful of gold coins, and held it up. “Her real name?” he asked quietly.
Tress frowned and shook her head. “I won’t give, Lord Delcastle. I’m sorry, but unless you have a Crown warrant or someone I know to be a senior war wizard asking that for you, you won’t learn it from me. I must protect my girls.”
“So must we,” Arclath murmured, waving a hand to indicate he and Delnor were a team.
Tress snorted. “Against getting cold from being all alone when they’re bare in their beds?”
She turned away, adding over her shoulder, “Come back at dusk and ask her yourself. You’ll need all those coins and more, if I know her. Her company can be had at competitive rates, but her name she guards-and why shouldn’t she?”
Arclath and Delnor exchanged glances, shook their heads at each other soberly, then looked up at Tress and tendered their thanks.
She merely nodded, looking as if she was sliding right back into sleep again, while still on her feet. They rose, bowed to her, took a last swig of broth each, and made for the door.
Tress roused herself. “Your coins, Lord!” she said sharply, pointing at the pile on the table.
Arclath gave her a smile and a wave. “Consider them a donation for your hospitality, and some fumbling
