“Dragonmere eel essence, Goodwife? Well, there’s not a lot of call for that, particularly at this time of night, but-”
Arclath’s face hardened. “Trust? Trust? Hah, you don’t fool me, wizard! It’s you in there, Elminster, and you have my lady ruined or bound silent. She’s a mask you put on when you seek to deceive me!”
He sliced the air with his sword, weaving a glittering wall of steel as he took two slow, menacing steps forward, forcing his beloved back.
She looked so hurt, through her tears…
He scowled, reminding himself that this was really Elminster, just using his Amarune’s body. “You must cease this evil of riding living folk! Right now!”
“Or you’ll-what?” Rune asked, regarding him sidelong. “Carve me up, Arclath? Kill me, the mask dancer you call your lady and say you’re doing all of this for? And when you’ve butchered me, and I’m lying hewn apart in my blood all over this floor, what then? How will you stop the wizard you so misjudge then?”
Baffled anger was rising in the heir of House Delcastle. She was right, Dragon take it! How could he strike at the wizard without harming Rune?
Arclath realized, as she reached the far wall of the hut’s lone room and sidestepped along it, that his advance had taken him far from the brazier. Hastily he shuffled back the way he’d come, trying not to stumble in the abandoned bedding as he retreated, without taking his gaze off her for a moment.
Spell, she might cast a spell… he needed something to throw and another hand to throw it with. Ah, his dagger, of course, but Oh, damn and blast! Why was life always so difficult?
“These endless complications are irksome, but then, complications are what give life its interest,” Manshoon murmured aloud as he strolled along one of the quieter streets of Suzail’s Windmarket neighborhood, hired lamp boys before and behind.
“Irksome, did you say, saer?” a Purple Dragon swordcaptain asked, passing at the head of his watch patrol.
Manshoon gave the man an easy smile. “Minor annoyances, I assure you. The cut and thrust of mercantile trade brings obstacles to the most prudent investments and stratagems. I’ll be happier when the Council is past, and matters have, ah, settled down somewhat.”
The watchman smiled back. “You and me both, saer. You and me both.”
They traded nods and continued on their separate ways, the patrol in the direction of the distant docks, and Manshoon bound for the walled compounds and grander towers where the wealthiest and most noble citizens dwelt.
Yes, Sraunter would prove useful indeed. The man’s shop was in a central-yet not overly popular-location. Manshoon’s collection of bases across Suzail was certainly growing quickly.
As he walked, Manshoon reached up and slapped himself on the cheek. “I must stop talking to myself. A bad habit, acquired during too many long, dark years of scheming, and all of that is almost behind me now, with Cormyr practically in my grasp.”
He gave a bright smile to a surly carter sweating along under the weight of a full keg, received an astonished stare in return, and sauntered on with a light heart.
Elminster dead. By his own hand, thorough and certain. Yes.
That extermination opened so many doors and made so many perilous trails safer and easier. Though it did mean some rethinking of strategy.
With his need for haste gone, it was now imperative to delay this Council of the Dragon. With Stormserpent and his fellow young hotheads down, he needed time-another day should suffice-to replenish the ranks of noblemen serving him.
When the Council inevitably turned into a bloodbath, he wanted particular royalty, courtiers, and nobles slaughtered, not mere random murders.
Tailored bloodletting saved so much time.
Elminster quelled a sigh. Lord Delcastle was growing wild-eyed, apt to do nigh anything-and becoming truly dangerous.
Oh, Rune’s body was agile enough to snatch up furs and blankets to trammel the blade the young fool was waving around, or even fling them over his head to blind him, and smite him cold-but Rune was naked, and Storm might as well be, and that sword was sharp. Someone was going to get hurt.
And it was all so unnecessary.
The coffer young Arclath was threatening him with was empty, until El departed Amarune-and Storm could just as easily store his ashes down the toes of her boots, or for that matter, scoop ashes that weren’t him at all from yon hearth for the angry young lordling to destroy to his heart’s content…
Ah, Storm was awake, throwing off the effects of the darfly. Through her glossy fall of silver hair, El saw the gleam of one eye opening a trifle, for just a moment.
Which made his role clear. He had to keep Arclath talking and all the lordling’s attention on him.
“Arclath,” he said in his best imitation of Amarune’s gravely earnest manner, going to his knees and spreading his arms wide, “what can I do to convince you? I am your Rune, and… and you’re frightening me. I don’t know how to prove anything to you!”
He had to keep his eyes from straying to Storm and drawing Arclath’s attention to her-but at the back of the mind they were sharing, Amarune had seen that eye open, too, and had instantly become interested in watching her.
Unthinkingly she reached for control of her eyes. They tussled mentally for a silent moment, until El brutally won that battle by shaking the dancer’s head violently and making her look away and down at the blanket-littered floor.
“Arclath?” he sobbed, not daring to let Amarune look up.
“Rune,” Arclath snarled, “if you are Rune and not the wizard, please believe me when I tell you I’m just as scared. And baffled about how to be sure you are… well, you.”
El managed not to smirk. Would he have been any more eloquent, at Delcastle’s age? Likely not…
Behind the young lord, Storm had set about freeing herself. Arclath knew his work. His belt was stretched tight, cutting deep grooves in her arms. Storm stretched like a great cat, arched herself even further, then relaxed, having tested the limits of her bonds. Which weren’t much.
Yet it seemed she’d learned enough to decide what to do next, without any hesitation at all. As El fought not to watch, with Amarune providing no help at all, Storm made her move.
“And I don’t know how to prove to you that I am Amarune. Elminster can’t control me for long, but… well, he’s not the monster you make him out to be.”
“Hah! That must be you, mage! My Rune would never submit to tyranny without fighting and shouting about it every moment she could draw breath!”
Behind the angry lordling, Amarune and Elminster saw Storm dislocate one of her shoulders with a twisting thrust and a grimace of pain. That loosened the swordbelt enough that she could wriggle in painful silence, pull and slide out of Arclath’s tight strapping, leaving the belt clinging to the shirt she left behind.
She rolled over with slow, infinite care, as bare as the day she was born and in utter silence, keeping her injured shoulder from harm. She kept rolling, across the furs and blankets to the hearth.
Elminster tried again-and this time felt Amarune in full agreement with him. He let her take over her voice midword, hoping he wouldn’t regret it.
“Arclath Delcastle,” he began severely, “how do you”-she took over so smoothly that there wasn’t the slightest hitch in the angry sentence-“know what I would do? I pleasure men for a living, remember? I do so because I need to eat, and to keep from freezing in Suzailan winters; I’ve never been able to afford the principles you cloak me with!”
At the hearth, Storm wasn’t reaching for any weapon nor doing anything at all to cover herself or tend to her shoulder. She was-El had to quell Rune’s disbelieving stare-making tea.
“You’re not my Rune,” Arclath snapped. “Fancy words for a mask dancer, wizard! You’ll have to do better than that!”
In their shared mind, Amarune’s anger flared. She tugged at El for control of all her body, and he yielded it. This should be good.
“Arclath, are you truly so foolish? Or just too angry to think? Do you really believe a glib tongue, cogent