Realms of War

trusted, longtime veterans of his various mercenary pursuits. Not that they were much to look at. Under Tauniira's ever-present mask was a face melted into grotesquerie by the biting edge of a spell that had slain many and only just spared her, and the tall, laconic, cold-eyed Loraun was a wereserpent. Yet they missed nothing that was going on around them, and Tauniira wore literally dozens of throwing knives all over herself, many of them hidden, that had a way of swiftly sprouting in darn near everything nearby that offered her trouble. Sinister viziers, for instance.

'Before anyone asks,' Mirt told his fellows, 'Targrath isn't missing because he's snoring alongside our off- duty fellows. He's standing guard inside their door, on my orders. Turlos is dead.'

That got their attention, instant and absolute.

'Our mutual friend the vizier,' Mirt explained, 'killed Turlos somewhere, and recently, and hid the body without any of us noticing. When he revealed himself to me up in South Tower earlier today, he flashed his fist, and there were rings on every last finger that glowed with magic. He did that to keep me from trying to slaughter him on the spot, but what he slew was the last vestige of any obligation I felt to him. So be not slow to blow your belt- horns, sword-comrades; Ongalor is as much our foe as the Just Blades or any friend of the Araunvols who might come calling with drawn sword and fire in their eyes. If Tymora smiles on us all, it'll be another boring night of standing sentinel, staring vigilantly at nothing. If she does not… well, be warned; we're at war right now.'

With nods and sour grunts of acknowledgment, everyone stalked off down the darkened passages, seeking their posts. Tauniira lingered at Mirt's shoulder, watching them go.

She knew he wouldn't move until those they'd relieved-Brarn, Landyl, Elgan, Brindar, Hargra, and Torandral- came trudging back to seek their beds in the chamber Targrath was guarding. Commanders who didn't take care to mark the comings and goings of their warriors tended to lose respect instantly, warriors soon, and their own lives sooner than they'd hoped.

Some of those trudges would be long. Ombreir was a sprawling place, a massive, towering stone house rising three stately floors from the ground, with the general shape of a rider's spur connecting three towers, one to the south and a northwest-northeast pair. At the junction of the spur were a splendid sweeping stair-ornate luxury compared to the narrow, bare spirals inside the towers-and a central block of grand chambers surrounding a glass- roofed courtyard. The easternmost of those lofty rooms was a grand entry hall, for the entrance to Ombreir lay in the east. A foregate ramp approached the mansion between two ponds to reach a spired gatehouse in Ombreir's surrounding fortress wall. All around that wall was a dry ditch moat large and deep enough to swallow a man on a horse, and all around the moat were tilled fields, slopes stretching away with not a tree in sight.

Ombreir was pleasant to the eye, from its soaring stone shy;work to the fruit-tree shade-bower out back- enspelled to keep birds away-to the southwest, the stables to the west with their gabled servants' quarters above the stalls, and the gardens to the northwest.

Not that Mirt could gaze on those amenities just then. All he could see was the quiet luxury of the paneled, bedchamber-lined upper passage in which he and Tauniira stood. At that spot in its long, curving run, it briefly became a balcony over shy;looking the central courtyard. Though the sun was quite gone, its light shining through stained glass skylights had earlier dappled the yard with spectacular patterns. The courtyard held a well surrounded by three soaring darm-fruit trees-and Mirt loved darm. They looked like rose red oranges but had soft, sweet red flesh like the watermelons of the Tashalar. Five darm had vanished from those trees already. Mirt had tossed the peels down among the knee-deep mint that grew thickly along the outer wall.

Mirt looked grim. Tauniira tried to cheer him by leaning in to kiss his neck, just under his jawline. He stood as unresponsive as a statue, so she lightly patted his codpiece.

'Not now,' he growled promptly.

'No?' she pouted teasingly. 'Well, before morning?' Mirt's sudden grin seemed to crack his face. 'Of course.'

'Yet the wheel will turn,' Harlo Ongalor said smoothly, emerald eyes flashing in the candlelight as he leaned forward to smile down the glittering feast table. Nothing seemed to keep the vizier from smiling his habitual tight little smile.

'When orc hordes come, yes, war rages until one side or the other is exterminated. Yet in lands held by men, there's a time for the sword and a time when every belly wants to be full, and coins are to be made. Amn knows war well, but will not be consumed in war. Soon, now, this strife will all be over.'

'This strife,' Imril Morund drawled meaningfully. The sly, sophisticated dealer in perfumes-and, so rumor insisted firmly, poisons-wasn't quite the most sleek or handsome of the wealthy Amnians dining more or less as captives of the Rightful Hands. Yet he was undoubtedly the most urbane, glib, and confident. 'It remains to be seen if any of us here will live to see another.'

'Oh, but surely-' Lady Roselarr started to purr.

'Oh, but surely nothing,' Ralaerond Galespear interrupted, lounging in his chair to strike a pose, long fingers raising his full tallglass to catch the light. He was the most handsome man in the room, and his every movement proclaimed as boldly as any herald that he knew it. A notorious womanizer, Galespear was the young and spoiled heir of a horse breeding family who owned many buildings in every city of Amn and grew ever fatter on the ceaseless flow of rents. 'War claims lives,' he pointed out bitterly, as if personally insulted by what he was imparting, 'and we sit here in the heart of bloody war, with armies on the march all around us. If one turns this way, we can muster barely enough blades to offer them a few breaths of entertainment ere we die.'

'As men of Amn,' Larl Ambror snapped, 'I have no doubt that we will die valiantly.' The thin, dark wine merchant's face betrayed nothing, which surprised no one. Day after day it seemed carved of unchanging stone.

'Oh?' Morund asked. 'Tell me now: How exactly does a valiant dying scream of agony outshine any other dying scream of agony?'

'Enough,' Darmon Halandrath rumbled, his voice as deep and as oily as ever. 'This is hardly fitting feast- talk.' The fat, indolent, and decadent heir of a very successful family of moneylenders and city builders nodded at the three diners seated beyond him; splendidly garbed Amnians who had turned pale and leaned back from their platters, wincing or shuddering. 'Amn has a bright future and is awash in rightful wealth. Talk less gloom and more of the opportunities and good things that await us all.'

'Indeed,' Gorus Narbridle agreed smoothly, his freshly waxed bald head gleaming in the candlelight. 'I recall from my own youth the dire talk of bloodshed and doom that younglings then reveled in-and where are they now? All grown fat and rich and older, given to talking fondly-wistfully-of their youthful darings. Some doom!'

'Yet I do have a concern, Saer Ongalor,' Lady Helora Roselarr said, 'about remaining here in Ombreir-we few, with so many armed foes abroad in the Dauntir-after the rest of the Rightful Hands have galloped off on some mysterious mission. Why do we tarry? Are you hoping to hide here unnoticed? Or are we waiting for some meeting or other you have not yet seen fit to inform us of?'

The three Amman heirs seated beyond Halandrath's grossly fat bulk suddenly stopped looking fearful and glared at her in unison.

Harlo Ongalor, however, spread his hands and smiled broadly, for all the world as though Roselarr was a daughter he was deeply fond of. 'I harbor no such sinister secrets, Lady Roselarr. It was in fact your safety I thought most of-though I was mindful of the importance to Amn of these other fair scions of the land around this table, too-when I sent most of the Hands a few days' ride from us, into sword-strife and bloody danger, so Prince Elashar could make himself personally known to the elder nobles of Amn who are rightfully suspicious of all so-called 'heirs' of the royal line, and so win their support. It is peril he must face, but I thought it cruel folly to hazard all the rest of you. Moreover, it will look best if I am not with him, so no one can deem me his captor or mind-master. So here we are, enjoying this excellent repast.'

Narbridle quietly rose from his seat, nodding silently to the vizier.

'Fleeing from doom?' Morund asked lightly.

The bald man gave the perfumer a sour look. 'The doom of an overly full bladder, yes. Not that I saw need to proclaim this. Polite folk do not speak of such things.'

'Oh?' Imril Morund asked. 'Are there 'polite folk' at this table? I thought we were all of Amn.'

Surprisingly, it was Narbridle who chuckled. A moment later, the deep rumble of Darmon Halandrath's mirth began.