shop…
Was it time to reawaken Talane? Probably, but given the happy reign of chaos at the palace, he had to know what was going on there. So, Fentable first…
“There’s always soup, hot biscuits, garlic butter, and sausages in the end kitchen,” Storm explained, “for servants who must eat at full scurry. These covered tankards aren’t for ale; they’re for soup.”
“I’ll try to bear that in mind,” Amarune replied, feeling full and much better for it, “the next time I storm the palace.”
Storm chuckled as she went to a small, worn old door at the end of the room.
Rune sighed. “Whither now?”
“A particular pantry.”
“Where the rarest dragon meat’s curing?”
“No, it’s all crocks of jam and pickles.”
“Then why-?”
“It has a loose stone.”
“I… see.” Then a thought struck Rune. “A stone Harpers know about?”
“Precisely.”
Evening was coming down outside as they hastened past a small window into a maze of passages and pantry doors. Storm seemed to know where she was going, and soon enough snatched a glowstone from its wire rack, flung open a nearby door, and stepped into a dark, low-ceilinged room crammed with large crocks and smelling faintly of brine.
“It’s been threescore summers since I last set foot in here,” she murmured.
“Oh, surely not,” Rune began, but her words faltered when the silver-haired woman turned eyes as old as kingdoms on her.
“It wasn’t until I went into the inner kitchen, just now, that I remembered this place,” Storm said. And sighed. “El has the same problem. Doors open in our minds unexpectedly-doors we often didn’t know were there. Sometimes what’s revealed is neither safe nor comfortable, and we rarely have time to deal with it properly, no matter what it is.” She smiled crookedly. “As my sister still says from time to time, at least it’s never dull, being mad.”
Amarune stared at her, not knowing what to say.
Storm gave her a wink and turned to a particular fat crock on the floor, under a shelf. Moving it out into the room, she pushed on one end of a stone that had been beneath it. The stone shifted a trifle, and she thrust a finger into the revealed crevice and flipped the stone up into her hand. The recess under the stone was small, and she drew out something that looked like a scrap of chainmail. A purse?
“What’s that?” Rune asked.
Storm put a finger to her lips for silence, replaced stone and crock, then fished inside the chainmail for something and held it out to Rune.
It was a plain iron finger ring.
“Put this on.”
“It’s magical?”
“Yes. Ironguard. Doesn’t affect any metal you carry, but unenchanted metal coming at you goes right through you as if you’re made of smoke. There are four other rings just like it in this-which is a paralyzing glove that I don’t think works, anymore. All of these are old Harper items the Crown mages won’t readily be able to trace. Tell no one about this.”
“And I’ll be needing this why, exactly?”
Storm gave Rune a sad look. “I rather think, Amarune, that we’re going to war.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sir Winter shook his head.
“A few lords have traveled the streets from club to club, or from lodgings or their city mansions to various eateries,” he replied, “ringed by well-armed bodyguards, of course. But as for pitched battles in the streets, or signs of armed men gathering anywhere for an assault-nothing. None at all. Thus far, at least. We remain watchful.”
Glathra pursed her lips. “Perhaps the lords of this land are more sensible than I judged them to be,” she muttered.
She nodded a farewell to Winter, who returned her nod and hurried away. A steady stream of reports was reaching his office, and it would be tragic to miss something crucial because he was busy relaying “no troubles at all” to a demanding wizard of war.
“Thornatar?” she barked.
“Here, Lady Glathra. We’ve restored order in the palace. The wounded nobility have all been tended, questioned, and removed to their own lodgings. Three listening spells cast on them have abruptly been ended, we presume by hired mages, but the rest remain in force and have thus far turned up nothing of interest.”
“Good. I am particularly interested in anything involving Lords Emmarask and Halvaeron. If even the slightest possibly useful or cryptic utterance is heard, my ears are to be apprised of it without delay, no matter the time or circumstances.”
“As you decree,” Thornatar replied, bowing as low as if Glathra had been an Obarskyr.
She grimaced, shook her head, and turned to look for Menziphur, the court alchemist. The man could creep around as silently as a spider! Where, by all the Her eyes fell on two faces in the crowd patiently standing around her-faces that should not have been there.
Storm Silverhand and the young mask dancer, Amarune Whitewave.
Biting back a curse, she snapped, “And what are the two of you doing here?”
“Well met, Glathra,” Storm said dryly. “We’d like to meet with King Foril Obarskyr. Soon, if that’s at all possible.”
Glathra stared at her, guilt and rage rising in her with almost choking speed, emotions she’d thought she was done with, and-and “Absolutely not,” she heard herself snap. “Your powers, Storm, are no doubt exaggerated by legend, yet remain mysterious. I could be dooming His Majesty by letting you within two rooms of him, for all I know. As for mask dancers, King Foril’s standards have always been rather higher than that-and though she’s young and there’s but one of her, she’s a mystery, too. For all I know she could be full of poison and sent to work regicide by foes of the Obarskyrs.”
The courtiers, Dragons, and war wizards around her were silently bristling, all now facing Storm and the dancer-and drawing back from them.
Glathra went on, wanting them all to hear her every word, so they’d know to watch over these two when she wasn’t around to give them direct orders.
“Nor are there just the two of you, whatever your protests to the contrary,” she said. “Princess Alusair, Vangerdahast, and Elminster walk with you, whether we can see them or not.”
She raised her voice and pointed at Storm and Amarune dramatically. “I would consider it treason on my part even to let you get close to our king, when for all I know you’d promptly try to take over his wits somehow and rule Cormyr from the grave.”
The two women stood alone, now, in a circle of frowning, hard-staring men. Glathra gave them a triumphant smile.
“Tracegar? Nurennanthur? Wands out, and capture these two for me. Work no magic that can harm the rest of us, and slay them not, but short of that, do anything needful to take them dow-”
Sudden light flared out of empty air right in front of Glathra’s face, and from out of it a voice she knew cried, “Glathra? Lady Glathra! Lord Delcastle broke through our post here! We-our Dragons wounded him, but he cut a few of them, too!”
