The gates opened, servants bowed, and they passed within. Burrath held his peace, offering no challenges to the retainers who glared at him as he followed his master, striding along just behind Oldbridle’s right shoulder. They offered no open insult, for if a noble had been limited to just one bodyguard, that guardian should be considered extremely capable, well equipped, and dangerous.
Manshoon waited until the polite greetings were done and Glarvreth had politely asked if, as he fondly hoped, this evening found Lord Oldbridle in the fairest of health.
That was when Burrath leaned forward to murmur in his master’s ear, loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear, “My Lord Oldbridle, twice in the streets I caught sight of men I believe were following us. It is only right that Lord Glarvreth should know.”
If his master was annoyed at his bodyguard’s boldness or at Burrath’s referring to their host as if the man had achieved the nobility he so hungrily craved, he did not show it. For his part, Glarvreth flushed with pleasure at the honorific and gave a silent hand signal to his retainers. Burrath did not appear to even glance at their movements, but Manshoon knew how many departed and that they were armed with daggers and bowguns no doubt treated with venom.
They slipped out into the streets to hunt no one at all. Manshoon had invented the followers he’d made Burrath speak of, but he was certain Glarvreth’s zealous agents would find some. Slaughter was coming to the streets of Suzail, giving Emperor Manshoon something to crack down on.
Burrath knew only a little of what his master suspected-but Manshoon was well aware, from visiting certain minds in the palace, that Andranth Glarvreth headed a long-established covert Sembian presence in Suzail that had been patiently awaiting a good chance to seize power for years.
This Council seemed increasingly likely to provide a superb opportunity. Of course, Glarvreth’s cabal would have to thwart some rival undercover factions seeking to accomplish the same thing-such as the one headed by Kormoroth of Westgate. And if open civil strife broke out, they would have to be very careful as to which Cormyrean nobles they backed and whom they’d slay, betray, or thwart.
Some nobles wanted a return to elder days in Cormyr, when a handful of wealthy and powerful oldcoin noble Houses ran the realm and kept a puppet Obarskyr on the throne, with a royal magician who served the foremost Houses as the royal leash, And any wizards of war the kingdom might suffer to exist would be mere hedge-wizards who patrolled with the lowliest Dragons and did the bidding of swordcaptains. Newer and more minor noble families could be swept into graves at the earliest pretext, shopkeepers and farmers firmly reminded of their proper places underfoot. And Sembia taught a sharp, swift lesson in a war that would loot their coffers and restore the Bleths, Cormaerils, and the rest to staggering wealth and whimsical lives of ordering matters in cities and realms far away. Lord Alsevir and Lord Huntcrown led that faction, but there were some hints that each man was preparing to oust the other, if ever he got power and opportunity enough.
Then there were two smaller groups of oldcoin nobles who wanted the Obarskyrs gone and a new royal House on the Dragon Throne.
The schemers led by Lord Crownrood, on the other hand, wanted “the old rot” of all the long-prominent families swept from the kingdom. The likes of the Illances, Crownsilvers, and Huntcrownsuch would be exiled or exterminated, so past excesses and treacheries would never be repeated as the realm flourished anew under the wise and benevolent rule of King Melder Crownrood, of course. Manshoon could barely suppress a snort just thinking of those arguments.
The schemers led by the Goldfeathers and the Emmarasks wanted a ruling council of six lords-unsurprisingly led by House Goldfeather and House Emmarask-to choose a king to do their bidding, after which all the large and wealthy noble families not on the Council, old and new, would be stripped of wealth and titles and turned out of the realm by order of that stern new king. Just how the six ruling lords intended to manage that, Manshoon hadn’t yet heard… and he doubted they’d prepared any proper plan for carrying out that grand scouring, or could, when the time came, accomplish anything set forth in any plan at all.
The younger and more minor Houses understandably wanted no part of oldcoin rule. Manshoon had heard of factions led by Lords Halvaeron and Torchmore but hadn’t yet identified who really supported them or what plans and preparations-if any-they had made.
He had heard whispers galore among the nobility gathered in Suzail that someone was meddling in nobles’ minds-must be, to make the timid act so boldly and stalwart oldcoats abandon their long-nursed feuds so swiftly and completely-but there was no agreement at all as to who was doing it, and how.
Well, the “how” was magic, of course, but cast by whom? Hired outlander mages, or wizards of war playing their own games or serving the Crown in some dark set-nobles-against-nobles scheme-the identity of the caster was something titled Cormyreans could not agree on. Not even to decide if the mage who’d so emboldened and advised the young fool Stormserpent was the same spellhurler who must be hiding the commander of the blueflame ghosts from all the house wizards-and palace mages, too-seeking the ghost-wielder.
Manshoon suppressed a smile. It was nice to have one’s meddlings noticed and feared, even if no one knew who was behind them, yet. Ah, but the time for that would come…
They were being led into a high-beamed, splendid feasting hall. One of its walls was covered in magnificent relief carvings of hunting scenes, the opposite wall pierced by an impressive row of toweringly, narrow, arched windows. Polished platters gleamed back the reflections of many candles hanging in sconces, which also mirrored flickering flames all along the row of windows.
Glarvreth turned with a smile. “Be welcome to my table, Lord Oldbridle! Let us-”
The rest of his words were lost in a series of nigh deafening, shrieking crashes, as several of the windows burst into the room, shattering into countless tumbling shards under the boots of heavily armed men swinging on stout ropes. The men landed hard, staggering as they whipped out swords and hand axes, then set to work hacking and hewing anyone who moved.
Glarvreth shouted and fled, his guest forgotten.
Guards streamed into the hall, but the invaders ignored them. They raced after Glarvreth as the merchant wrenched open a secret door in the hunting-scene wall and plunged through it.
Lord Oldbridle tried to follow-but got chopped to the floor by the foremost armed intruder.
Burrath drove his sword over the dying lord and right down the throat of Oldbridle’s slayer. Then he sprang free and crashed through the door, shoulder first, before Glarvreth could shove it closed.
Flung backward by the door, the merchant promptly fled.
“Close it! Close it!” he shrieked over his shoulder as he disappeared down a dark and narrow passage that ran along behind the carved wall.
Burrath did so as fast as he could, hacking at an intruder trying to burst through, until the man fell back. The door slammed. Finding a bar and stout cradles to hold it, he barred the door for good measure.
Heavy blows promptly fell upon the closed door. He did not tarry to see how long it would hold.
“Who’s your foe?” he shouted, running after Glarvreth.
“Kormoroth of Westgate!” a shout came back. “Didn’t you recognize him? You just killed him!”
A heavy, metallic crash followed those words as some sort of portcullis slammed down across the passage in front of Burrath, separating him from the fleeing Glarvreth.
The bodyguard stopped, shrugged, and retreated down the passage past the barred door. Enthusiastically wielded axes started to bite through it, but it was stout and thick; he should have ample time to find another way out of Glarvreth’s mansion.
In the other direction, the passage ended at a door that opened into a back pantry. Cooks and maids scurried and screamed; his arrival sent them dashing headlong into rooms beyond.
Manshoon took his borrowed body after them, confident they’d take a back way out-kitchen slops must go somewhere, and almost always through a handy rear exit-and he could follow them to somewhere far from murderous cabals from Westgate.
Not that this night had been wasted. Far from it. Andranth Glarvreth was a badly frightened man, and the struggle for Cormyr’s future was now short one ambitious adventurer-merchant outlander. Ah, well, no doubt the butchery would manage to stumble along without him.
“Here,” Amarune said suddenly, ducking into a gate. “This is private enough!” She dragged Storm into the gateway with her and flung her arms around the taller woman.
“Rune,” Arclath hissed, still panting from having just jumped down from the saddle of a hurrying horse, wrestled the same winded and upset mount to a pawing, bucking halt, then plucked his white-knuckled lady down
