Storm quietly opened Rune’s door, the coverlet wrapped around herself in a clumsy way, and wordlessly had handed her a bundle of clothes. They all proved to be magnificent gowns. Borrowed from Lady Delcastle’s wardrobes, Rune guessed, but decided not to ask. Storm had vanished again, anyhail.
Amarune found something dark, long, and simple that more or less fit her. It was too ample for her taste but could be drawn tightly around her waist with a sash, and Storm had provided several beautiful ones. She put on her own clout and boots under it, looked at herself in the guest chamber mirror, winced, then shrugged and flung open the door.
Storm was leaning against the passage wall outside, also in her own worn boots-full of Elminster’s ashes, of course-but above them wore a splendid gown Rune was sure Lady Delcastle would miss.
“Come,” Storm said softly. “We’re off to storm the palace.”
They hurried out of the Delcastle mansion, nodding to servants without slowing, and hastened through the grounds.
Coaches rumbled along the streets, and once through the gates they saw some nobles on foot, too, walking in their finery.
Hand in hand, Storm and Rune set off down the street to join them.
Another fanfare rang out across the city.
“That’s the second,” a wealthy merchant who hoped to be soon ennobled declared to one of the nobles converging on the palace, Beckoning banners flapped above the gates. “The third won’t sound until we’re all seated, to let the city know the talking’s about to begin. Brought your belt flask, I hope, for the boring bits?”
The noble ignored him, striding on without pause or reply.
Citizens came out onto their balconies and peered from their windows and the doors of shops to watch the nobles stroll past.
There was that young fop, Lord Arclath Delcastle, and yonder quiet old Lord Adarl Summerstar (“A proper gentlesir, him!”), and beyond them, in an open carriage and wearing a magnificent hat, the Lady Deleira Truesilver (“Didn’t she take to her bed, not long ago? Looks well enough, now!”)
Those on the Promenade, or whose vantage points were close enough, could see watchful lines of war wizards at the gates.
None of the watchers were close enough to hear one of the older guards flanking the inner doors tell his junior partner-inexperienced, but a swifter runner than the veteran-that the visible war wizards were the least powerful, there largely for show.
“The truly powerful are already inside, peering into minds and watching and listening like owls a- hunting.”
“I’ll be glad when this day’s done,” was the muttered reply.
“You and me both, lad,” the older guard replied. “The third fanfare’s when all the fun begins-the actual start of the Council.”
The strong, cloyingly sweet tropical blossoms that scented the wax Lord Naeryk Andolphyn had used to freshly shape the two chin-spikes of his forked beard was making Lord Danthalus Blacksilver feel faintly ill, but Blacksilver forebore from saying so. If his sharp-featured newfound friend hadn’t offered him a ride to the palace gates, he’d have been reduced to walking.
Their coach rumbled over some loose cobbles, then clottered past many a walking lord as the two spent the ride trading opinions of newly discovered wines and superior cheeses from far lands. Idle chatter was something Lord Danthalus Blacksilver considered himself rather good at.
“Oh, gods,” his host exclaimed, breaking off in mid-rhapsody over Sembian soft sharpnip and looking behind them. “Wouldn’t you know it? I thought only the ladies indulged in that sort of nonsense!”
“What?” Blacksilver asked and then saw. “Oh. Oh, I see. I quite see.”
Behind them on the Promenade were large, ornate coaches drawn by matching teams of splendid horses, each conveyance bearing a lone lord, seemed to need a score of horses to pull him along. In the far distance, even grander wagons appeared-one looked like a ship hauled up out of the harbor onto a massive cart, and another appeared to have balconies — all moving toward the palace.
In this, as in most other matters, the nobles of Cormyr were seeking to outdo each other.
Blacksilver peered at a coach team with a peculiar slinking gait. “Are those… lions?”
“ Yes,” Andolphyn said shortly. “Must be using a hired wizard to keep ’em under the whip. Hope no one casts any mischief.”
Something that seemed to be drawn by dragons came into view, and Andolphyn shook his head in fresh disbelief. “Oxen cloaked by illusions, must be. Those can’t be real.”
Blacksilver chuckled uneasily as their coach slowed, nearing the cluster in front of the gates. “If I know anything about war wizards, their fury soon will be, though.”
In this, he was correct. Two coaches rounded the curve of the Promenade in the far distance, escorted by shining-armored outriders whose mounts, long banner lances, and splendid armor outshone those of the best Purple Dragon honor guards. A rather large number of outriders.
“Someone’s brought along his own army,” a gruff old lord in a nearby open carriage commented-as wizards of war stormed past, hastening on foot from the palace toward the still-distant outriders. Onlookers in windows and shop doorways were murmuring, having caught sight of the unauthorized military might on display.
Andolphyn and Blacksilver saw the hurrying Crown mages stop just long enough to work spells then hasten sternly on. A tense breath or two later the outriders were all trotting briskly past, on down the line of coaches and right past the palace. Trotting at the exact same pace, despite some spur-kicking and hauling on reins by their surprised-looking riders.
One outrider even fell off, and his empty-saddled mount continued right on. He ran after it, caught hold of the reins, and pulled hard; it dragged him, slowing not in the least.
On the riders went, up the Promenade to the Eastgate and out through it, some of them yelling for help or cursing.
Andolphyn laughed. “Willing to wager Dragons are waiting outside the gates with a camp set up to gather those dolts in?”
Blacksilver shook his head. “I’ll not take that wager. I’m sure they are.”
He looked again at the lions. “I hope they’ve enough war wizards to quell battles, or…”
“Yes,” Andolphyn agreed. “ ‘Or,’ indeed.”
The name of Lord Arclath Delcastle held no weight at the gates; the Dragons there looked her up and down and shook their heads.
Amarune looked past them, hoping-in vain-to see Arclath.
“I’m expected!” she said almost pleadingly. “Lord Delcastle will be escorting me on from here!”
The guards merely laughed, shook their heads, and said firmly, “Not today, lass.”
Whereupon Storm Silverhand took her hand and led her around the Dragons toward the watchful line of war wizards, telling the guards smoothly, “The lady is expected, saers.”
As they stared at her in surprise, she added, “Please come with me, Lady Amarune. Lord Delcastle is being kept busy by some of his more, ah, demanding fellow lords, and sent me to bring you to him.”
She swept a startled Amarune into the palace, mouthing the words “Ganrahast tells me the falcon is dark” to the nearest war wizard.
Startled at being given the passphrase by someone he didn’t recognize, he blinked and yielded way, murmuring, “Who are you?”
Storm gave him a smile so warm he blushed, and with little stars of promise shining in her eyes, replied, “Someone in disguise.”
“No doubt,” came a cold and familiar voice from just inside the palace door. “Wherefore you can turn right around, both of you, and depart this place. Go far. We’re much too busy today to entertain mask dancers and thieves.”
“Why, Glathra, dear,” Storm replied mockingly, “doesn’t Foril need you at his side right now, far more than we do?”
“Speak the king’s name with more respect, if you dare utter it at all!” Glathra spat, waving at the guards beside her to move Storm and Rune away. “Get them gone,” she ordered. “Now.”
Faces hardening, the Dragons advanced. “You heard her,” the foremost snapped. “Go-or be taken!”
