5
Arrow loops were the only source of natural light in the tower's lower floors. As a result, rooms located there were usually dark, dreary places, even during the daytime. King Azoun didn't mind the deep shadows. In fact, he welcomed the darkness as he stood quietly on the bottom floor of his fortress's northeastern watchtower, for the shadows hid the monarch's growing anger at the soldier who stood before him, his tunic rumpled, his boots unpolished. The guard also had his sword drawn, and a broad smirk lined his thick-boned face.
'So tell me again, old man,' the guard grunted at the king. 'Just what are you doing down here? Don't you belong back in the main hall with the rest of the relics?'
Azoun narrowed his eyes and cursed silently. The piggish man who stood before him, dappled in the late afternoon sunlight from a nearby arrow loop, was being far too obnoxious to be tolerated. 'I told you, my good man,' the king said softly, 'I'm looking for the captain of the guard. I have a message from His Majesty. Now, are you going to let me deliver it or not?'
The soldier rubbed his poorly shaven chin. 'I don't know. I mean, I can't be too careful about who I let roam around the keep.' He paused for a second and scratched a particularly hairy spot at the corner of his jaw.
It was obvious to Azoun that the guard was simply being difficult to someone he saw as a harmless old civil servant. 'Kind sir,' he pleaded, 'I must be on my way. The king will be very cross if I don't deliver this message soon.'
'All right, but just you remember that Sergeant Connor was nice enough to let you pass,' the guard warned, finally stepping out of Azoun's way.
Smiling, the king stared at the soldier's round face. 'Oh, yes,' he said. 'I'll remember.' To have you demoted and fined for harassing one of my servants, Azoun added to himself. The ruler of Cormyr bowed fatuously and limped out of the tower into a corridor inside the castle's outer wall.
The king wore the guise of a royal messenger that afternoon: a fine black tunic with a purple dragon sewn across the chest, rough woolen pants, a dark cloak, and low-cut leather shoes. He carried a heavy cloth satchel and a rolled, sealed piece of parchment, official-looking enough to fool almost anyone he met.
Azoun had done a little to change his features, too. With the help of some dye, the king's graying brown hair and beard were now completely white, and some cleverly applied greasepaint had enhanced his wrinkles and paled his skin so that the monarch looked like a veteran of seventy winters instead of fifty. A little well-placed grime covered his normally spotless hands and hid the marks left by the rings he wore as ruler of Cormyr.
It wasn't surprising that the guard didn't recognize King Azoun. Few of his servants and even fewer of his subjects ever got close enough to the monarch to get a good look at his face. Nor was his visage on any of Cormyr's coins. Even without the simple makeup he now wore, Azoun could stroll into most taverns in Suzail without being recognized.
Still, the king didn't take any chances. Whenever he wished to move about the city unencumbered by his personal guard, he donned a disguise and slipped out of the palace by way of the secret door near the tower he'd just left. His great-great-grandfather, Palaghard II, had ordered the secret door be built so he could rendezvous with his various mistresses. Azoun had never used the exit for that specific purpose, but he had thanked Palaghard's lust more than once when the door allowed him to escape unnoticed into the Royal Gardens, then into the city itself.
The king continued to affect a limp as he moved down the dark, seemingly airless corridor, counting paces for a hundred yards or so. Suddenly he stopped, looked up and down the hallway, and listened for the sound of guards nearby. When he heard nothing, he felt the cool stone walls for a hand-sized indentation. Once Azoun found what he was searching for, he checked the hallway one last time for guards, then pressed a hidden lever.
With a low, muffled rumble, the secret door opened. Sunlight flooded the corridor as a four-by-four stone sank into the ground, revealing a tall, thick, cleanly trimmed hedgerow. Azoun squinted at the sudden burst of light and quickly moved into the concealing shrubbery. He fumbled for the hidden release on the outside of the castle for only a moment, then the door slid shut to the sound of stone faintly rubbing against stone.
'Wait a minute, Cuthbert,' someone muttered in a deep voice from a few yards away. 'I just heard something moving in them bushes next to the wall.'
Azoun crouched down and held his breath. Though the secret door was mechanical, magic kept it relatively silent. Still, the king couldn't hide the sounds of his movement in the hedgerow. A sword poked through the evergreens just above his head.
'There's nothing in there,' another voice, probably belonging to Cuthbert, said. 'And if it was something, it'd more likely turn out to be a rat than a man. Castles attract scavengers like that. Why, I once saw a rat the size of-'
'You've told me that story fifty times if you've told it to me once. Anyway, I'm just doing my job,' the deep- voiced man told his companion. He thrust his sword into the bushes again. 'I've got a duty to the king, and I intend on doing my best to fulfill it.'
Azoun smiled at the sincerity he heard in the guard's voice. It was a welcome change from Sergeant Connor's thinly veiled threats. I'll have to find out who that soldier is and have him commended, Azoun noted to himself. Perhaps I'll even promote him into Connor's job inside the tower.
After a few moments of silence and a few halfhearted sword thrusts into the hedges, the guards moved off. Azoun listened to their footsteps on the gravel path as they walked away. The king also heard one of the guards ask, 'I suppose you're going to sign on for that crusade the king's mounting?' The other guard either nodded a reply or had moved too far away, for Azoun never heard his response.
As quietly as he could, the king took off his cape and tunic and unloaded the satchel. Inside the pack was a thin, unlined cloak and a worn, colorless tunic. The livery of a court messenger was fine for getting Azoun out of the keep with few problems, but the king knew that he'd never get honest answers from the townsfolk if he was seen as a member of court.
And honest answers were what Azoun wanted more than anything in the days after the assassination attempt. Of course, Vangerdahast hadn't found it surprising that one of the king's own subjects would try to kill him because of the crusade he proposed. To Azoun, however, the whole affair was mind-boggling.
The Cormyrian king had never doubted that it was his duty to gather the western forces under his banner and stop Yamun Khahan and his barbarians before they had a chance to destroy any western cities. The monarch knew that he had a responsibility to protect Faerun and his own kingdom. He was prepared to sacrifice a great deal-even his life, if necessary-to be certain that the horde never reached the heavily populated areas around the Inner Sea. Perhaps foolishly, Azoun assumed that his people would understand the war's necessity, even share his vision of the West united against the invaders. And he'd dismissed the rumblings from the guilds, for the merchants always complained about any venture that would increase taxes.
The assassination attempt had shown the monarch how wrong he had been to do so. Now Azoun wanted to know if the Trappers' Guild itself had sponsored the attack. And if the guild did foster the attempt on his life, the king wanted to see firsthand how many of his subjects were in unrest. He realized that any strong popular revolt while he was away on crusade might be difficult to quell. Filfaeril was certainly capable of leading the loyalist forces, but the king didn't want to make such a dangerous possibility more likely by ignoring it.
'Reports can't reveal half of what I'll discover myself,' Azoun whispered as he stuffed the royal livery into the satchel and hid the bag in the bushes. Then, as quietly as possible, the king pushed his way through the hedgerow.
'Hey, you!' someone yelled. 'Get out of those bushes. You'll not be using the Royal Gardens for a chamber pot!'
Azoun blushed and turned to see the royal gardener, a thin, choleric man, shaking a rake at him. So much for stealth, the king thought. Holding his hands before him, Azoun said, 'Sincere apologies, my good man. I dropped a coin, and it rolled into the hedge.'
People were beginning to stop and stare at the irate gardener and the red-faced old man at whom he was yelling. The Royal Gardens were open to the public during the day, but usually few commoners strolled around the northeast corner of the keep; the rest of the gardens were far more attractive. Still, there were enough people gathering to make Azoun nervous. If the guards should come back, he might be taken in for questioning. The king
