when they broke into rebellion, or the Dragons had done a very thorough job of scouring the city-well, this part of it, at least-of armed and excited folk in the streets.
The Promenade, under its usual warm and plentiful lamps, was but lightly traveled in its long sweep around the soaring, imposing bulks of the vast, many-windowed royal court and the older, more castlelike royal palace. Oh, there were people about, aye, all of them afoot-not a cart or wagon to be seen-but no one was shouting or waving a sword or anything else. Most folk were walking alone or in pairs or trios; the only larger group Mirt could see was a watch patrol-Dragons with a war wizard, talking quietly and looking far from excited.
Yet out of lifelong habit, Mirt looked back fairly often as he walked. His first glance was to fix his inn in his mind, the way it looked by night, so he could readily find it again. His second was to mark anyone who might be following him, who’d been in the street at his first glance and seemed to have moved since in a way that suggested Mirt of Waterdeep might be of interest to them.
None such rose to his notice.
Well, hardly surprising, that. He was, after all, no one at all to anyone but a handful of folk currently alive, in this time so long after he’d expected a waiting grave to find him. Living for centuries was for archwizards or god- tainted priests, not fat old moneylenders with smart mouths, who liked to provoke people who thought themselves powerful or important. Why Mirt looked back a third time and revised his thinking in an instant.
“Talandor! Caztul! Caztul caztul!” he exploded.
There was no mistaking the two men wreathed in ceaseless bright blue flames. Walking purposefully toward him, with drawn swords in their hands.
“Kelstyn, gelkor, and hrasting sabruin!” he added to surrounding Suzail, as he started to hurry, rushing along with his battered old boots-the same footwear that had made the inn’s grandly garbed seneschal visibly wince- flapping loudly.
If they were giving chase, there was only one halfway-safe place for him. The damned palace. Again.
“This city is cursed-or I am!” Mirt growled as he picked up speed, lurching from side to side in his loudly wheezing haste to be elsewhere.
“I’m too old for this,” he muttered. “Damned deadly magics! Why don’t these rats-underfoot war wizards police them, hey?”
He hoped to lead the two slayers into the midst of those same Crown mages; if he could dart through or into the detaining arms of war wizards, mayhap his flaming pursuers would come right after him-and the Dragon Throne’s tame mages would destroy them.
He cast another swift look back and pushed himself to lurch along faster.
Aye, the wizards were his best hope.
Provided, of course, he reached the palace before the ghosts caught him.
Manshoon had managed to forget how irritating the mind of Understeward Fentable could be.
The trouble lay in Fentable’s character; the man was moderately cunning, had learned the arts of deft manipulation and subtle misdirection, and derived real enjoyment from intrigue and the cut and thrust of palace diplomacy.
However, he was only about a fifth as clever as he thought himself to be, and so shallowly gleeful in his petty chasings after this chance to browbeat a lowly courtier or that opportunity to emphasize his superior rank in dealings with someone just a little below him in court standing that it left Manshoon seething.
“Tiresome” was a polite way of putting it. Wherefore, Manshoon rode Corleth Fentable’s mind with a savage, impatient edge to his control. He’d thought it imperative to learn the state of things inside the palace-but wished he hadn’t bothered.
The king was in hiding, heavily guarded, and the ever-ambitious Glathra was kinging it as ably as her tireless bullying would reach. While chaos reigned, minor courtiers traded whispered rumors behind closed doors, and higher-ranking court officers cowered in various unexpected chambers, well away from their offices and usual posts, so Glathra’s scurrying messengers couldn’t readily find them.
According to palace protocol, the-still missing-royal magician and the lord warder could both give orders to the palace understeward; whereas, all other wizards of war, except in times of declared war, could not. Yet, it seemed Glathra called on custom and protocol when they suited her, and blithely ignored them when they did not.
Just as Understeward Fentable blithely ignored the six successive sets of orders she’d had messengers deliver to him. He’d taken care to inform the palace heralds that the Lady Glathra Barcantle had been declared a traitor to the Crown, so her orders were to be ignored. He’d omitted to mention that the declaration of her status was his alone, not a royal one, but the heralds had winked expressionlessly, informing him without a word that they were well aware of that. They knew he was carrying out this empty gesture to preempt Glathra’s inevitable move to declare him a traitor, the moment she discovered him missing and her orders not carried out.
However, even the lowliest Dragon on guard at court or palace would have found it odd that the palace understeward had departed the palace, at a time when his superior, Palace Steward Hallowdant, was abed and snoring.
It was even more unusual for Fentable to slip out alone, without grand pronouncements and orders, a messenger or three in case a need for them arose, a scribe to capture the most crucial-to-the-realm of his passing thoughts, and a bodyguard or two to emphasize his importance.
Manshoon would have sent him out naked and covered in dung, if it had suited his purposes.
However, on this occasion, it-and anything else that might attract attention-did not. He was riding Fentable forth to meet with certain nobles. Ostensibly to try to arrange a noble cabal to keep the peace and protect both the royal family and all Suzailan courtiers, in the event civil war broke out. In truth, Manshoon intended to use his magic to covertly read the minds of all nobles he got close enough to, to learn who could be used, and how. Fentable’s cabal would become Manshoon’s power base of allied nobles when he took the throne.
Moreover, there was a chance-admittedly small, but a chance nonetheless-that he might get close enough to the right noble to discover who controlled the blueflame ghost that had appeared at the Council.
It was also high time to begin spreading rumors that would cause public suspicion of the priests of all popular faiths in the kingdom. Thefts, murders, deceptions, baby-devourings… the lot. Priests were a peril to vampires, and he wanted them kept busy in his new empire or at least hampered by public resistance and suspicion, not free to work mischief or try to step into the present chaos and restore order, seizing power and influence for themselves in the process.
The most private way out of the palace that didn’t involve a damp tunnel and lots of stairs up into this or that tavern or shop along the Promenade was the house behind the stables. Fentable took that route but was barely a block from the palace when he saw an unmistakable wheezing, lurching figure hurrying toward him along the Promenade, casting many swift glances back over his shoulder.
Mirt of Waterdeep, making for… the palace?
And right behind him-Fentable came to an abrupt halt, almost before Manshoon felt astonished-were Marlin Stormserpent’s pair of blueflame ghosts, rushing along vengefully after the old Lord of Waterdeep.
Manshoon backed Fentable into a doorway to watch the slaughter.
El shook himself and waved his arms-Amarune’s slender, shapely young arms-in satisfaction. Gods, but it felt good inside a body this young, strong, and Mystra-kissed supple. Why “If you’re finished enjoying Rune’s general health, I’d like to remind you that it won’t continue if we tarry here,” Storm warned, plucking at his arm.
Obediently El joined her in a sprint down the narrow passage she was heading along. He recognized it; ahead was a door that led to an alcove that was a guardpost presiding over one of the smaller, less important palace doors.
“Why can’t matters be as tavern tales have them, for once?” he asked idly as they ran. “No guards at their posts-that sort of thing?”
Storm chuckled and banged open the door to the alcove.
Several startled Purple Dragons cursed and went for their swords, but she marched straight through them with the crisp words, “At ease, loyal Dragons! I’m Lady Glathra, testing a new spell with Wizard of War Tracegar here. If we both look like rather striking women, me with silver hair and him the very image of a certain mask dancer some of you may have seen a time or two, our spells are working. We’re off to the Dragon and the Lion, to test our guises on harsh critics.”
