Calmly she strolled up the path, ascending a broad stair to where a grizzled, monocled man of graying years and mustache was enjoying a row of flagons, each containing a different wine. He stared at her in amazement for only a moment before springing to his feet and saying, 'Great lady, be welcome in Low Rythryn Towers!'
He bowed, offered her his hand, and indicated a vacant chair beside his own. 'I am Lord Thael Sembergelt, once a battle commander of Sembia, but now lord only of this house. I am delighted the gods have brought me so noble and-dare I say? — beauteous a guest! Pray, make known to me your name.'
'I am Storm Silverhand, called by many the Bard of Shadowdale,' Storm replied with grave charm, 'and I must tender my apologies for arriving uninvited. My spell travels brought me here unintentionally.'
'No apologies are needed, not at all! In truth, you filled me with delight, strolling up through the gardens like that as if you were some hidden nymph come to greet me! It seemed this house were showing me one of its treasures!'
'Gallantly said, my lord,' Storm said with a twinkle in her eyes. 'I fear I've upset the calm tenor of your days. You must have few guests.'
'We see few welcome guests in these troubled times,' the old lord agreed gravely, offering her an empty goblet and silently beckoning a servant over. 'But my house is honored by your presence. I heard you sing once in a tavern in Selgaunt, when you danced on a table for a room of weary soldiers. I'll not forget that.'
Storm inclined her head in thanks. The servant, bearing a silver platter of decanters, glided to a stop between them.
'Pray take wine, Lady Storm,' the old lord said earnestly, leaning forward in his chair. 'I dearly hope you can stay for evenfeast, or even grace us for a few days. My house is yours.'
'I would be delighted to dine with you tonight, my lord,' Storm replied, watching her host trying to keep his eyes away from where her plunging gown was designed to make him look, 'and see the morning sun rise with you. But as for longer, I cannot say.'
'I quite understand,' Lord Thael rumbled. He questioningly indicated the array of decanters.
'The glowfire, I think,' Storm said, and enjoyed watching the gnarled old hands unstop and deftly pour.
He placed the goblet gently before her. 'You are my fourth guest this even! There seems to be much strife on the roads in Battledale just now; we seldom see so many travelers this far off the road. You'll meet them at evenfeast.'
'We?' Storm asked, raising her glass in salute. 'You have a family, Lord Thael?'
'Only a nephew, Oburglan,' Lord Thael said gruffly. 'You'll meet him, too.'
Guessing that the lord's nephew was no family prize, Storm savored the delicate bouquet of the glowfire for a moment, exchanged smiles with her host over the rim of the glass, and sipped. Yes. She kept her face pleasant and drank the wine with apparent relish, trying to ignore the burning sting of the poison as it slid down her throat…
She'd chosen the drink herself. Thael had poured it, a servant had brought it… ah, gods above, the Malaugrym could be anyone!
As dusk came, Storm was still grimly trying to decide which of the folk of the manor was the shapeshifter. The servants came to call them in to evenfeast in the candlelit great hall of Low Rythryn Towers.
The waiting had been pleasant. Lord Thael, obviously enchanted with her, had treated Storm with all the courtesy he knew, discussed politics with a keen worldly interest, laughed appreciatively at her mimicry of dale lords, and gave a shrewd summation of the directionless self-interest that governed Sembia.
Now he escorted her to the best seat at the board, at his right hand. A lady of rank, Storm bowed as an equal to him, and endured a daggerlike glare from a thin and sour young man. Probably Oburglan, furious at being displaced at table in front of guests.
'Well met, gracious lady,' said Thael's expressionless seneschal, Burldon Hawklan. 'Even in this isolated hall, we have heard of the valiant deeds of the Bard of Shadowdale, and Those Who Harp at her command.'
Storm smiled back at him. 'Minstrels tend to over-flower what they sing of,' she responded gently, 'but I thank you for your kind words.' Hawklan bowed stiffly and took his place at the far end of the table; to Storm's eyes, he was every inch a professional soldier-one who did not consider himself retired.
The other guests were less impressive. One was a smooth-faced, saturnine trader in spices and pelts from Ordulin by the name of Loth Shentle; the second was a young and handsome priest of Tymora from Selgaunt, Dathtor Vaeldeir, who professed to be very excited at the chaos now reigning over the Realms; and the last was a grim and dangerous-looking man, Thorlor Drynn, introduced to her as a trade envoy of Hillsfar.
The dinner was excellent, consisting of roasts of just about everything that could be roasted, smothered in a variety of gravies and sauces, with spiced greens served as garnishes. And wine, of course… much wine.
There was poison in her goblet again. Storm took a certain dark amusement in the fact that she could go on drinking it all night without ill effects because of what Mystra had made her into. She let her eyes wander up and down the table, wondering which of the eyes meeting hers belonged to a shapeshifter-and how soon it would be ere the Malaugrym grew restive and attacked.
The conversation began with talk of trade difficulties in these lawless times, and came around to unreliable magic and priests rendered helpless or mad and the Fall of the Gods. At that point Thael declared he'd heard enough about gods and their doings, and diverted talk to the future of trade in the Moonsea lands and the Dales, and the difficulties Zhentil Keep's aggressive nature was causing to all traders.
The grim envoy of Hillsfar spoke up. 'For my part, my lord, we in Hillsfar are resolved to meet force with force. For too long the Zhents have taken advantage of the absence of strong nearby opposition to force their will on other folk and territories not their own-in fact, to behave little better than the brigands we universally detest.
'I do not speak of the times they raise armies and march on one of us-which, by the way, seems to happen at least once a spring, ruining harvests-but of their open attempts to control how and where ore is brought out of Glister, and anything at all out of Daggerdale. They try to dictate where and when ships may sail the Moonsea, on what terms we must all trade in the region… and even if we may trade at all with their rivals Cormyr and Mulmaster.'
'Bullies will always be with us, sir-if not one, then another,' Loth Shentle said smoothly. 'The trick is to anticipate their moves and take trade advantage of the side effects; a shortage of food here, rising prices of scarce items there…'
'As a fur dealer, you profit well out of Zhentil Keep's aggression, aye,' Thorlor Drynn said coldly. 'It has kept the prices of furs falsely high these ten years or more.'
'I deal with the world as it is,' Loth Shentle replied easily, 'not as others might wish it to be.'
'Yes, yes,' the priest of Tymora said excitedly. 'Deal with what the gods hurl your way, taking chances whenever you strive for something that is not the most obvious or easy!'
'But surely, my lords,' Storm said quietly, 'one should not accept the world as it is. Deal with it, yes-but strive always in one's dealings to get something in return, to make the world give a little… to nudge it in the direction of one's dreams.'
Loth Shentle snorted. 'I dream of vaults full of coins, Lady Storm,' he said wryly. 'Have you any that you can yield unto me?'
'Dreams are just that: dreams. Warriors must deal with the real world, with all its harsh brutalities and cold truths,' the seneschal said.
Storm turned to look down the table. 'I do not see the gulf between dream and reality, Sir Hawklan. We must fight Zhents because they actively pursue their dreams. In Shadowdale, we have fought them army to army, not merely poison in flagons'-she looked up and down the table, but saw no telling expression in the faces turned to her-'and daggers in the dark. Seven open battles these past ten summers. We should all pay very great attention to dreams.'
Thorlor leaned forward. 'Well said, Lady. I'd say the lords of Zhentil Keep have done quite well in their dreaming. Voonlar is already their vassal town, the Citadel of the Raven, which was to belong to us all, is firmly in their grasp, and Teshwave and Yulash lie in ruins because of them… to say nothing of the harm done to the once- proud cities of the Moonsea North, Daggerdale, the Border Forest, and west along the trade route to far Waterdeep.'
'Aye,' their host said gruffly, setting down his heavy flagon. 'There's a dream: the trade route from here across half Faerun to the Sword Coast. An awesome undertaking, however base the motives and bloody the doing. What say you, Nephew? You once told me you wanted to see Waterdeep.'
