The stablemaster rubbed his hands a trifle cleaner on his belt linen, looked Amarune up and down, and gave the younger Lord Delcastle a broad wink. “But of course, young master! I know-”
“Burtland,” Arclath snapped, “you will apologize to the Lady Amarune for what you were just about to say, and amend your thinking. Regard this sorely wounded lady, here on the horse! We must tend to her and discuss her future and ours. So banish all thoughts of, ah, trysting from your head, and-”
The stablemaster surveyed the scorched and unconscious Storm-who chose that moment to open one bleary eye, notice him, and give him a wan smile and a solemn wink-bound to the horse. Bending to examine her bindings, he looked back at Arclath, then at Amarune, at Storm again, and back at Arclath.
And winked.
“Indeed, young master!” he boomed. “I wronged you dearly, that I did! Only one maid was I thinking of, and here you have two willing wenches! Not to mention bonda-”
“Burtland!” Arclath roared. “Go! Not another word out of you! Just go!”
The stablemaster went, hastily, but wasn’t quite swift enough to get out of earshot before he started chuckling.
Amarune watched him dwindle across the gardens. “Aroused old goat,” she commented flatly.
“I-ah, my apologies!” Arclath said hastily. “That was unforgivable! I-”
“Should think nothing of it,” Storm told him, twisting around as much as she could in the bindings, “because you haven’t time. El is… badly overstretched and likely to be wandering half-witted this next little while. I’m not much better. So you’re more or less on your own.”
She squirmed against the leather looped around her. “Get me free of this, will you?”
“Sorry,” Arclath said hastily, leaping forward. “I-” He fumbled with the knots briefly, then hissed in exasperation and started slashing with his belt knife. Storm rolled weakly over-and thumped to the straw-strewn stable floor.
“Oh, gods, sorry!” the young lord burst out, reaching for her. Amarune smothered a sudden attack of giggles.
Storm chuckled, too, as Arclath helped her into a sitting position. She looked down at herself. “Your mother’s going to be none too pleased with me,” she said, surveying the ruined gown without apparent concern for how much of her was now on display. Then she looked up sharply. “Is the realm at war yet?”
Arclath shrugged. “We’ve been a bit too busy getting you out of the palace to survey matters. Yet, I’ve seen no smoke and heard no warhorns…” He looked at Rune.
Who shook her head. “A few men running, shouting about this or that doom. No clash of arms that I saw, but Storm, we were busy. Folk are upset, all right.”
“Then we need to get to the palace,” Storm decreed. “Quickly.”
“The palace? We just got you out of there!” Arclath protested, aware that his debonair facade was long gone and he was increasingly sounding like a naive village idiot aggrieved by his status-and aggrieved anew by each new thing that happened to him.
“And I thank you for it. You didn’t find it necessary to kill too many annoying wizards or obstructionist guards, I trust? In circumstances where there were witnesses?”
“No, but-”
“Then back we go. Now. Tell your servants to arm themselves and guard your mother as if an invading army is about to sweep down on Delcastle Manor; get me my own leathers back-this gown is melted into me in spots and hurts like the Nine Hells-and let’s go find Mirt and Alusair and what’s left of Vangerdahast, before all of us seek out Glathra. We’ve got to rally Crown and court and try to prevent some of the more gleefully enthusiastic rebel nobles from riding the kingdom right into civil war.”
“But I thought we were turning our backs on all of this, and-”
“We were, but things have turned bad enough that Cormyr’s needs now outweigh ours.”
Rune frowned. “Talk to Glathra about what, exactly?”
“Taking Marlin Stormserpent into custody,” Arclath said grimly, “and getting our-that is, the Crown’s-hands on the Blade and Chalice that give him control over his two slayers. The blueflame ghosts that murdered Seszgar Huntcrown and everyone with him.”
“No, you were right when you said ‘our,’ ” Storm said firmly. “Glathra’s no more to be trusted with the ghosts than young Stormserpent. They’re too powerful for her-or anyone at the palace-to resist. However, she doesn’t need to know I feel that way about her just yet, or that we don’t intend to get both Blade and Chalice straight into her hands.”
Rune rolled her eyes. “And just how is what I’m now hearing different from what nobles do, that you and Glathra and everyone else of Crown and court thunderously denounce as treason?”
Storm smiled. “That’s easy. They’re blackhearted villains-whereas, we’re good folk, with nothing but heroism and shining intentions in our hearts.”
Manshoon’s head hurt.
Or rather, his mind throbbed with aches brought on by strain, and sagged with weariness, and that made whatever head he inhabited at the moment hurt, too.
However, he was still on the scene.
Others had not been so fortunate. Lord Lyrannus Tantorn and Lord Jassur Dragonwood were both down and lost, slain in the brawls that had raged through the Hall of Justice.
He’d had to flee Dragonwood’s dying, dimming brain precipitously, bursting into the nearest mind he’d already conquered-which had happened to be that of Lord Melder Crownrood.
His arrival had saved Crownrood’s life by making the overwhelmed noble reel and fall-down behind some seats that shielded him from the vicious hackings two longtime rivals had been trying to deliver to the back of his head. As they leaned down from the tier above to get at Crownrood, and overbalanced when his body collapsed down out of sight as they were in mid-swing, their blades had lodged in seat backs-and doomed them, as nearby lords who’d mistaken themselves for the targets of those attacks retaliated bloodily.
Though he was almost certainly still alive because his sprawled position underfoot had kept him out of the furious fighting that had thereafter raged so closely above him, Crownrood was far from grateful. His bruised mind had plunged into a nasty headache and had birthed its own swift black rage at his unwelcome rider.
For his part, Manshoon cared not a whit what Crownrood thought. The man’s body could run-and for that matter, crawl and stagger, too-well enough, and had served to get Manshoon out of the royal palace of Suzail and away, back to the home and shop of the alchemist Sraunter.
Through streets where nobles’ bodyguards had glowered, exchanged sharp words, and threatened each other with half-drawn swords, men had fled the palace shouting all manner of dire overblown dooms, and some fearful citizens had hastened to shutter their shops.
Yes, it was all very satisfactory.
King Foril still lived; wherefore, no one had a good excuse for mustering armies for open war over an empty Dragon Throne. Yet, confusion ruled the city, and fearful folk everywhere were reaching for swords and daggers.
Which meant a certain deft villain known as Manshoon could start to work violence openly, a killing here and a disappearance there, amid the wider fighting that was sure to erupt-and if the Crown clamped down on such bloodshed with the full might of the Dragons, the populace would grow angry at such tyranny. Angrier. Weakening this weak king still more, and giving the future emperor more room to do what needed to be done.
Yes, Crownrood could stew. On a cot in an otherwise empty room, safely locked away in a corner of Sraunter’s cellar. If the man had any sense at all, he’d get some sleep-but then, heads of noble Houses in the Forest Kingdom weren’t noted for their abundant sense. Low cunning, yes. Arrogant schemes and the notion that the world owed them everything and the gods smiled on them, indeed. Common sense, more rarely, and in far more paltry supply.
Crownrood’s handy little prison was actually the alchemist’s wood room, but its current lack of firewood bothered Manshoon not at all. By the time cold weather came again, he’d be enjoying the comforts of the royal palace-and if for any reason he wasn’t, and the alchemist remained too useful to let the cold claim him, there would be time enough then to seize or steal someone else’s firewood.
Right now, more important matters beckoned. Manshoon needed to discover which noble commanded this new blueflame ghost, in a hurry.
