Elminster Must Die

reparation for so clumsily attempting to bribe you,” he said lightly, and he departed the club, Delnor smiling apologetically in his wake.

Tress watched the door close behind them and shook her head. “Now just what was all that about?” she asked softly. “Stlarn it.”

“Nobles are crazy,” the maid who’d awakened her offered helpfully.

Tress sighed. “So they are, Leece. So they are.” She padded back toward the loft stairs. “Yet they always have been-and they don’t all come to my club with callow young palace messengers every morn, asking after my best dancer.” She sighed again. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

The magic faded at last, leaving the long-bearded wizard and the curvaceous silver-haired woman free to curse heartily.

They did so with enthusiasm, though Elminster spat out his words at a trot.

“We’ve lost the night and some of the morning,” Storm added, lengthening her stride to keep up with him.

“I know that, stormy one,” El snarled. “I also know just how careless I was to fall afoul of a dolt-simple war wizards’ trap, so ye can refrain from commenting on that, too!”

“Hmm. Someone’s very touchy this morning,” Storm told the ceiling.

Elminster made a rude sound popular with small boys, turned a corner, and started along the corridor even faster.

“What if she turns willful and impatient?” Elminster asked suddenly, as they rushed along the damp and dark passage together. He shook his head. “She could do so much damage …”

Storm snorted. “And we, down the years, have not?”

“Ye know what I mean, lass. Goes wrong, like Sammaster and-well, too many others. The Realms could be in real trouble.”

Storm put a hand on Elminster’s shoulder. His muscles were as tight as drawn bowstrings. “Then we’ll have to destroy her,” she said softly. “As we’ve had to destroy bright weapons we forged before. The needs of the Realms demand, and we must meet those needs.”

“And then what? How shall we find a successor if she’s gone?”

Storm grinned. “Again, needs demand. You’ll just have to father some new ones, won’t you?”

“Ah, thanks for that broth,” Delnor said hesitantly, once the door of the Dragonriders’ Club had closed behind them, leaving the two men standing in the starting-to-get-noisy street. “Very good, that was.”

Arclath shrugged. “Tables are like beds; far better shared.” In unspoken accord they set off along the promenade together, walking at a leisurely pace, as he added, “So tell me more of this tumult at the palace-does the king seem agitated? Or Ganrahast? Or is it mainly courtiers fussing and hand-wringing as they contemplate favorite possible dooms?”

Delnor winced and flushed simultaneously. “You know the palace well.”

“Well enough to spot a palace messenger looking for a way not to answer me directly, yes.” Arclath grinned. “So give, friend Delnor. Worry not; I won’t be asking you for guard deployments or whom our wizards of war are most attentively going to be farscrying. Just the general mood, and who’s setting it … or trying to.”

They’d been strolling around the great arc of the promenade in no particular haste but were already within sight of where it met the city wall in one of Suzail’s great gates. Arclath turned to walk into the nearest side street, entertaining the vague notion of heading to the harbor, when a fanfare of warhorns rang out at the east gate.

As the flourish had intended them to, they stopped to watch. A large group of armsmen on matching horses came riding into the city, a great clattering of many hooves echoing off the gate arch. The riders surrounded a string of richly appointed coaches.

“A noble coming to the council,” Delnor said uncertainly, peering at the pennants fluttering from lance points.

One glance at those banners had told Arclath the identity of the arriving party. “Lord Daeclander Illance,” he volunteered. “Arriving early-as he does for all court events he deems too important to ignore-so as to have plenty of time for tasting the, ah, pleasures of Suzail and transacting as much shady business as he thinks he can get away with before the war wizards and highknights actually start sitting in his lap to listen in.”

He grinned. “I imagine Rothglar will be more than a little annoyed. He has to rein himself in a trifle and behave when his father’s in town. Daeclander has so run out of patience with his eldest son that disowning him might well be a positive pleasure. It’s not as though Velyandra’s birthed him only a few sons; Rothglar has eight brothers, last time I checked.”

The riders started to fan out, to form a broad front across the promenade to create the maximum inconvenience for others and stir up as much notice as possible; Arclath sighed in disgust and led Delnor firmly into a side street. “We’ll turn south at the next street crossing,” he murmured, and they did-but soon detoured hastily back westward at the intersection after that, as a dung wagon came rumbling toward them, bringing its reek with it.

“I knew there was a reason I usually tarry at the Eel until the highsun patrons start to flood in,” Arclath declaimed-and then swore as a second dung wagon came their way, goading them into ducking up the nearest alley.

It was wide and relatively uncluttered and clean-smelling, as Suzailan alleys went-they could tell without looking for tall landmarks that they were close to the palace and far from the Westwall slums-but the courtier and the lordling soon came to an abrupt halt as a third dung wagon rumbled into the muddy midyard of the city block that the alley had led them to, and came to a creaking stop, blocking their path.

The drover drew a knife from his boot and with its pommel struck a two-toned chime next to his head-and Arclath and Delnor were mildly interested to observe that this signal bore immediate fruit. Many sleepy figures promptly shuffled out of the lofty back balcony doorways or stout back doors of the surrounding shoulder-to-stone- shoulder tallhouses, down a rickety variety of back stairs, and out through various locked or latched gates at the bottom of those stairs to proffer a coin each to the drover-copper thumbs-and then empty their buckets of nightsoil.

Delnor looked pained. “Let’s go another way. This could take forever.”

Arclath started to nod-then stiffened, plucked imperiously at the palace messenger’s arm, and pointed.

One of the weary figures who had just lowered her emptied bucket was the very dancer they were seeking. He said as much, hissing out the words.

“You’re sure?” Delnor muttered excitedly.

“I have seen her without her mask, more than once,” Arclath said, nodding. “I’m sure.”

Unaware of their scrutiny, she turned and stumbled sleepily out of their sight behind the dung wagon. They hastened after her, but when they rounded the reeking wagon, there was no sign of her among the trudging neighbors.

“She must dwell hard by, in one of these,” Arclath said, peering up and all around. Then he started purposefully for the nearest door.

Delnor ran two swift steps, hesitated, then dared to lay hands on a noble lord, and held him firmly back.

“We can’t scour out a score or more tallhouses,” he protested. “Most folk won’t even answer their doors; are you going to try to break them all down? And what’ll you tell the Watch? I’m Lord Arclath Delcastle, and I’m searching for a mask dancer because I-uh, because I-”

Arclath nodded. “Your point is made.” He stared up at the surrounding balconies once more, sighed, then asked briskly, “The club, tonight, then? Dusktide?”

Delnor agreed, then stifled a yawn of his own. As the dung wagon rumbled off along the alley again, he waved farewell, then turned and started trudging in the direction of the royal court.

Arclath watched him go then caught sight of a young lad trailing past with an empty nightsoil bucket.

“Lad!” he called and held up a copper coin.

The boy stopped, and Arclath tossed it to him. Watching it get snatched deftly out of the air, he said, “A silver falcon to go with that if you bring me a hire coach right speedily.”