bedchamber.
He winced as each step made his head pound-he hadn't had that much to drink last night, surely-but doggedly pursued his goal: the curtained archway that led into the morning room. There he would break his fast on the great table whose glass top covered gloriously hued maps of the dales. He loved those maps, a wedding gift from the Rowanmantles, and peering at their exquisite details never failed to cheer him.
He shouldered through the curtains, sniffing the welcome aroma of sausages and melted cheese and eggs on bread, and froze midstride.
'Storm! Well met and welcome, but what are you doing sitting in the middle of the table? — Oh, war council time again, is it?'
The Bard of Shadowdale smiled at him and tossed her head in greeting; her silver hair cascaded down one shoulder, and Mourngrym swallowed at her beauty, remembering the last time she'd sat on the table, wearing rather less, and the wild war council that had followed then. It was too early in the morning for all this…
Eyeing the sausages on the platter beside Storm's boots, the lord of Shadowdale went to the long sideboard, took up a flask of firewine, and drained it at a single gulp.
When his eyes came back into focus, Storm was shaking her head. 'You'll regret that, you know.'
'My head already feels like a blacksmith's anvil,' Mourngrym told her. 'Is there any more of this stuff about, do you know?'
'End drawer down the window end,' Storm and Shaerl said together, then broke into chuckles (Storm) and giggles (Shaerl) of mirth. Mourngrym gave them both a look of long-suffering disgust and went to the drawer indicated.
'It's too much,' he told the Realms at large. 'No man should have to deal with such cheery females. Haven't either of you heard of respectful silence?'
There was no reply. Mourngrym had taken the decanter back to the table, sipped from it without bothering with a flagon, and lifted his fork to deal with the sausages before the silence registered. He looked up-into Storm's impish eyes, dancing with mirth as she regarded him, lips pressed tightly together. He shot a look along the table to Shaerl, who had seated herself with dignity and was regarding him, chin on hand, in equally amused silence.
Mourngrym opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again and shrugged. 'That's certainly more peaceful,' he told the first sausage as he raised it.
'Unhand that sausage!' a voice bellowed from somewhere very near.
Mourngrym choked, tried to spring up, arms flailing, and toppled sideways, gabbling for breath.
He and the chair met the flagstone floor with a solid, head-ringing crash amid an explosion of laughter. Mourngrym found himself then face to face with Rathan Thentraver.
The stout priest was crawling out from under the table. He winked, deftly plucked the sausage off Mourngrym's fork, bit into it, and said, 'Umm. Very good! Thank you for offering me this excellent viand!'
'I am going to kill someone,' Mourngrym announced calmly to the ceiling, 'and probably soon. How long have you been under here?'
'Not long,' Rathan rumbled cheerfully. He emerged. 'How long do you plan to sleep in every morning? Not turning into a vampire, are you?'
'No,' Mourngrym told him shortly, and rolled to his feet. 'No fangs to you.'
'Ah,' Storm said, 'that's better. I was afraid you were going to play the grim stone-headed tyrant all day.' As she spoke, the wall gong chimed.
Mourngrym looked at it sourly and sat down again. 'And what does that signify?'
' 'Tis the signal that you've finished your morning feast, my lord,' Shaerl said sweetly, 'and that yet another Realms-shaking war council is about to begin.'
'But I haven't fin-' Mourngrym began. He snatched his platter to his chest just before Storm plucked it away. He brandished his fork at her. 'Keep back, woman!'
There was laughter from the doorway. Belkram and Itharr of the Harpers stood there, staring delightedly into the room. 'Now that's a sight worth walking here from Berdusk to see! We battle the Bard of Shadowdale with blades… but great lords use sausage forks on her!'
Mourngrym sighed, backed away to the sideboard, and set his plate down. Picking up a sausage, he pointed at the chairs ranged around the table and said, 'Pray enter, Lords, Ladies, and Gentles, and be seated. There, there, and there… ah, and I believe that seat's available too… very good.' He glanced at the gathering: Knights, Storm, a swirling radiance by her shoulder that must be Sylune, the two Harper rangers, Shaerl, and-who was missing?
Elminster, of course, and Lhaeo… not surprising. He bit into the sausage thoughtfully. Ah!
'This room's too quiet by far,' he announced grandly. 'Where's Torm?'
'I thought you'd never ask,' the smooth voice of the thief replied from the doorway. 'While you've been snoring, I've been working. Pretty soft being lord of a dale, isn't it?'
'You?' Mourngrym snorted, making a rude gesture with what was left of his sausage. 'Working?'
'Indeed,' Torm replied with dignity, 'I have just returned from a dawn foray-a bold and brazen foray, let me say, fraught with peril and shining bravery-into the road camp just south of Voonlar, looking for certain things our departed Zhentish friends may have left behind!'
'More women?' Merith asked slyly. 'Torm, how many can one man have?'
'The answer, Sir Elf, would surprise you,' Torm said loftily, 'but that is a matter for converse at some more relaxed time. I speak of the Central Blade's pack train… sixteen wagons of it, at any rate.'
'Thieving still?' Shaerl sighed. 'Torm, in case you haven't noticed, there's a war on! Must you indulge in petty thievery?'
Term's eyebrows rose. ' 'Petty thievery,' Lady? You wound me to the quick! What did you think your surviving troops would eat? And be paid with? Starving men'-a dagger spun from his hand to transfix one of Mourngrym's sausages, and the thief jerked on the silken cord affixed to the hilt and snatched the food away from Mourngrym's hasty grab-'who feel they've been cheated tend to make unsafe guardians, particularly when they're also well- trained warriors.'
'Belt up, well-trained warrior,' Florin suggested kindly as Torm reeled in a dusty sausage and bit into it with satisfaction. The ranger looked around the table to address them. 'We're here to talk some things out and decide how best to proceed, given the perils abroad in the land and… our lack of Elminster.' In the silence that followed, he added, 'In the absence of the Old Mage, Sylune is the eldest here, and should speak first.'
'My thanks, Florin-I think,' the ghostly Witch of Shadowdale said dryly. 'For my part, I have unfinished business Elminster set me to. Sister, will you hand my stone to Itharr of the Harpers? He is the only one of our Rangers Three who hasn't borne me yet.'
'I will,' Storm said gravely, drawing the chain from her neck and rising to carry the stone around the table.
'The Rangers Three? Sounds like a chartered adventuring band,' Torm commented. Itharr took the stone carefully, a little awed. The thief added, 'Or a traveling minstrel show.'
'Torm, dearest,' Sharantyr said sweetly, 'Tell me: do these idiocies just tumble out whenever you open your mouth-or do you actually sit there and think them up?'
'Thinking?' Torm frowned at her. 'Who said anything about thinking? Kill first, then loot… and the thinking part is that unpleasant shouting business at the end when it all has to be divided. It makes brains hurt.'
'Mine certainly does,' Mourngrym said with feeling, 'but I believe Sylune still has the high tongue in this round of converse.'
'For my part,' Sylune responded, 'there is no more to say. I am a thing of ghosts and shadows. My will is bound to duty.'
'Yes, but what would you like to do?'
'Find my sister the Simbul and beseech her to do as Elminster did,' the Witch of Shadowdale said very quietly. 'That is, make me a new body.'
There was an embarrassed silence at the raw longing in her voice. Florin stepped into it by saying, 'Next senior among us is my lady, Dove. What say you?'
Dove smiled at him and looked around the table. 'My first duty-our first duty-must be to defend the folk of the Dales against brigands, Zhents, roving monsters, and the like. Otherwise, there'll be no crops, and starvation come winter. Time of Troubles or no, the work of daily life must go on. We have to find all the Zhents scrambling around
