“If they resist, there’s no need to be gentle,” Glathra added, turning away to give some arriving nobles a glare.
Storm took Amarune’s hand again and strode off down the street too quickly for the guards to bother to follow far.
“Now what?” Rune murmured. “Are we giving up?”
“Of course not. There are scores of ways into the palace,” Storm whispered back. “Right here, for instance.”
She ducked into an exclusive-looking shop, gave the proprietress a wave that incorporated some sort of subtle signal, then ducked through a side door in the shop showroom and down a dark and narrow flight of stairs… only to come to a halt in front of a spearpoint that had a hard-faced Purple Dragon behind it. Beyond him was a lantern, and beyond that more guards and a war wizard.
“The palace,” the half-seen mage intoned flatly, “is closed. Return tomorrow.”
Without a word Storm went back up the stair and out into the street, with Rune hurrying to catch up.
“They’ll have every way guarded,” the dancer sighed.
And it soon seemed that they had. The stable gates were closed and manned by a row of alert Dragons with spears. The next two secret shop-tunnels Storm tried were also guarded. And the door of the high house behind the stables was answered not by the usual beautiful chatelaine, but by a sour-looking wizard of war who said firmly, “No bedwarmer-lasses are wanted in the palace this day or night, thank you,” and closed the door in their faces.
“The royal gardens are full of guards, too,” Rune commented, looking past Storm’s shoulder. “Was that the last way in?”
“No,” Storm replied, “but I was hoping to avoid the slow and unpleasant ones. Or we may reach the Council chamber too late to be of any use.” Putting a finger to her lips for silence, she strolled along the ivy-cloaked wall of the high house they’d just been shut out of, turned the corner to continue along the side wall, and let herself through a narrow swinging gate into the house garden.
She was just reaching for a particular section of the ivy-drenched wall ahead when the hidden door she was seeking in it opened. The same wizard glared out at her, wand in hand, and said, “You’re far more persistent than a mere coinlass would be. I think we’ll just-”
The pot that struck the back of his head then made a solid thlangg sound, and the mage’s eyes rolled up in his head before he collapsed in a heavy, untidy heap on the doorsill.
A bewhiskered old face grinned out at Storm and Rune over the hairy hand that held the pot.
“Well met, lasses! Storm, ye got me into the palace, an’ the food an’ drink I’ve been scrounging since have been splendid, so ’tis my turn to do ye a favor! Let me drag this lard-sack out of the way, then come in and be welcome!”
“Mirt!” Storm greeted him happily, “I could kiss you!”
He took her up on her offer, promptly and enthusiastically, and she responded so warmly that Amarune, squeezing past them, murmured in her ear, “You sure you haven’t spent time mask dancing?”
Storm chuckled and broke free of Mirt’s lips.
“Later, old lecher,” she told him fondly. “We’re in some haste right now. We’ve got a kingdom to save.”
“What, another one? Which one is it this time?”
Hiding watchfully behind the darting eyes of the young and excited Lord Jassur Dragonwood, Manshoon listened hard to comments from all around as noble lords jostled and glared, laughed and waved… and shuffled through one of the doorways into the Hall of Justice. From what he was hearing, no goading would be necessary; these lords were spoiling for a chance to rebuke the king.
He’d prejudged matters rightly, which is why he was well away from the minds of Crownrood and Loroun and had left all memories of him heavily cloaked from them. Freed from his influence, they could better be themselves-and as they were as expendable as every other titled lord and lady of the Forest Kingdom, any recklessnesses they indulged in were just fine with him.
So long as someone dragged out a sword and disrupted this Council, or Foril was forced to turn tyrant to keep order, causing most of the nobles to end up seething at him, the future Emperor of Cormyr and Beyond would be well content.
Now, had the palace dolts been foolish enough to try to dictate seating? No, it seemed not, aside from a small royal area.
Ah, well, that sort of blunder would have made things too easy.
In the crowd of nobles outside another door into the Hall of Justice, Arclath glanced back down the long, crimson-carpeted palace passage he’d just traversed, wondering if he’d ever see its splendors so unbesmirched, and its guards standing quite so peacefully again. To do so, he had to peer past the shoulder of Lord Braelbane- year in and year out, still a tiresome old wind-horn-and was startled to see a superbly gowned Amarune Whitewave halfway down that passage, walking toward him.
Dodging past Braelbane without a word, he strode to meet her. “You got in? How?”
A nearby guard turned his head sharply to give Amarune a hard look, and she laughed, replying, “Why, Arclath, what better chance to see the palace and try to decide if I’d like it here, without a lot of questions being asked by bored guards and courtiers and war wizards and highnoses… ah, other highnoses?”
“Nobles,” he corrected her.
“Nobles,” she echoed.
Arclath drew her close, giving the guard a “none of your affair” frown, and murmured, “But… but how’d you get in, Rune? Past the guards and all?”
“Mirt let us in,” Amarune replied. “Storm and me, that is-”
She turned to indicate Storm and found she was gesturing at empty air. Storm Silverhand was nowhere to be seen.
Above and around them, thunderously, the third fanfare sounded.
The anteroom off the crimson-carpeted passage was small, dusty, luxuriously furnished, and occupied only by a silver-haired woman talking to herself.
Or rather, arguing with a swirling cloud of ashes.
I must get into that Council. So either we conquer some poor, unfortunate, high-ranking courtier or a much- less-poor noble, or I go back into your boots and you march right in there. At least get me to the open doorway, so I can drift away to find a suitable victim, while you distract the guards.
Storm sighed. “No, El. It won’t work. Not with all the wizards, Highknights, and Dragons they’ve gathered around that room.”
Show them your bitebolds, Stormy One. That usually works.
Storm shook her head. “I don’t mind in the slightest trying that, but I just don’t think it’ll work. Not this day. There are handfuls of war wizards at every door, all with wands in their hands, orders to use them without hesitation, and worry and excitement all over their faces. They’ll blast you.”
I’m already dead or bodiless; what can they do to me?
“That’s just it,” Storm hissed. “We don’t know! They could destroy you! And it’ll all end right here-Mystra’s dreams, your promises, and all-over a bunch of nobles fighting over the Dragon Throne, something that’s been going on ever since there first was a Dragon Throne. El, use your head!”
Haven’t got one any more, came the inevitable reply.
“Then use mine, and see sense!”
Nay, nay, lass, I’ve got ye to do that for me. When I behave like a madwits, that’s when things go best, remember?
“My memory, Old Mage, is rather less selective than yours!”
Amarune and Arclath turned together to the nearest doors that opened into the Hall of Justice, but at its doors many stern war wizards and Purple Dragons denied Amarune passage.
“Now, listen here!” Arclath began sternly. “I’m Lord Delcastle, and I-”
“No bodyguards or companions of any sort,” the oldest wizard told him sternly. “We’ll not bend this clear royal decree, so if you want to avoid unpleasantness, lord, you’ll be best advised to-”
“Do not presume to give me advice, man,” Arclath began but broke off as Amarune dug steel-like fingers into his thigh.
