“Ah… which bed?” Arclath asked carefully.
“One of the ready rooms in the guest wing, I’m thinking, so he’ll be found before he starves. My sleep spell won’t be broken-assuming the ceiling doesn’t fall or the bed collapse-until someone not of us four touches him.”
“Four?”
“I’m counting El, dolt of a lordling. And his new body. Which isn’t really his yet, until he learns to walk and talk with it.”
Arclath gave Vangey a disbelieving frown, at about the same time as the man on the table thrust one arm stiffly into the air, tried to wriggle the fingers of that upraised hand, and worked his jaw enough to say, “A bit shaaaky, thusss fahr!”
Rolling his eyes, the noble took a swift step back so he wasn’t within reach if the body should lash out suddenly.
“Wise lad,” Vangerdahast commented solemnly-a moment before a wild sweep of Applecrown’s arm dashed him off the table.
Arclath sniggered, then let his laughter roar out of him.
“That’s right, lad,” Vangey’s voice rose, from somewhere on the floor on the other side of the table. “I like pet frogs that know how to laugh.”
Busy and brightly lit palace passages hung with shields and lined with statues weren’t Glathra’s favorite sites for important policy discussions, but Highknight Starbridge and Sir Talonar Winter had come rushing up to the royal magician while he, Vainrence, and Glathra had been heading to the kitchens for something to eat. She couldn’t remember when she’d last chewed food or swigged something more than a goblet of water snatched from a passing maid’s tray.
Someone, it seemed, had burst into Staghaven House unnoticed by any neighbors or watch patrols, and had slaughtered Lord Windstag with most of his household servants. And very recently-when they’d been found, blood had still been running out of some of the bodies. The Dragons securing the house had recognized a face among the sprawled and slain servants that shouldn’t have been there: Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant. Worse yet, someone had cast powerful magics on the slain; three priests and a young war wizard who’d cast spells on the corpses to try to learn more about their passing had been plunged instantly into barking, howling insanity.
“There will be no more attempts to cast anything on the slain,” Ganrahast decreed grimly. “Take the oldest palace supply wagon, convey the bodies all out to the rocks beyond the Westhill, and burn them all there, wagon and all, with guards posted to keep the curious away. I want this done in secret, as much as possible, to keep word from spreading.”
Starbridge and Winter nodded, bowed, and hurried off to see to it.
“So who did this, do you think?” Vainrence murmured, watching them hasten down the passage, distant already and dwindling fast.
“Noble slays noble,” Ganrahast sighed. “It begins.”
“Royal magician,” Glathra said darkly, “with respect, it began some time ago. It’s only going to get bloodier.”
“Blood spilled among nobles I expect,” Ganrahast replied, starting off down the passage. “Betrayals and disloyalties among Crown folk are what shake me. And more importantly, shake the Dragon Throne.”
“Every one of them,” Vainrence murmured, nodding agreement.
“Has every interment in the royal crypt now been examined?” Ganrahast asked him.
“Yes. Nothing is amiss, nothing missing, and there are no more empty coffins. New wards and alarm spells have been cast.”
“Have you found Vangerdahast?” Glathra asked sharply.
“No.”
“And why not?” Ganrahast pressed him, as if he’d been a disobedient young mageling and not her superior.
The lord warder shrugged. “He doesn’t want to be found.”
Blueflames left the lodge in an eerily silent procession, with the Lady of Ghosts stalking after them and the Flying Blade and the Wyverntongue Chalice in her hands. She spared not a glance for Marlin Stormserpent, lying dead on the floor.
The room started to fill with the smell of Baert Ghalhunt’s scorching head, but it wasn’t long before the door opened again.
A lone person came in, hooded and cowled, and made straight for the dead noble.
Murmuring half-sung lines of ballads to himself, this new arrival bent to pick up the two severed hands and put them in a pouch.
“But she had eyes, those nightdark eyes, only for meee…”
The singing broke off with a brief grunt as the cowled one bent again-and in one swift, smooth heave, lifted the limp corpse up onto his shoulder.
Then he turned and went out into the forest, ignoring the drips that fell from what had been Marlin Stormserpent as he went.
“For I walk a lonely road, a hidden road, a bright road, yes I walk a…”
The soft singing faded, and birds began to whir and call again.
By the time they broke off and the lodge door swung open again, the head in the fire was a blackened thing, more skull than Baert Ghalhunt.
The two bullyblades were hot, sweaty, and very tired. Not to mention hungry. They’d been up all night, and if their mad lord of a master wasn’t asleep, they certainly wanted to be.
“Lord Stormserpent?” one of them called, finding the chair-nay, the room, there was nowhere here to hide-empty. He glanced up into the rafters but saw only pelts and trophies, no lurking slayers.
The other bodyguard touched his arm and pointed silently down at the blood on the floor.
There was a lot of it.
“Tluin,” the first one swore and hurried to the door that led into the kitchens, to make sure Stormserpent-or anyone else-wasn’t there.
He came out shaking his head. “Circle the place.”
“Of course,” the other bullyblade replied, drawing his sword. “Are you thinking what I am?”
“If you’re thinking Lord Mightybritches Stormserpent is dead, and we’re out of hire and are likely to be hunted as murderers, then yes.”
They gave each other grim nods and hastened back outside.
Never seeing or hearing the cowled one who watched their futile search from behind a distant tree, singing very softly, “Oh, there’s nothing so sad… as a bodyguard… with no body… left… to guard.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It had been a long night at the Dragonriders’ Club, and Amarune was so weary her dances would soon become snoring collapses into patrons’ laps if she tried to go on.
The nights all felt long since she’d gone back to dancing.
It wasn’t the work; it was the tension.
Everyone was watching each other warily; everyone looked over his shoulder; everyone carried an extra knife or pouch of sand or pepper… in the tenday since the Council, a mask of calm had settled over Suzail that no one at all trusted.
There was general brooding, a waiting to see just how and when the fighting would erupt.
No one doubted that it would. Most of the nobles who’d come for Council were still in the city, plotting and scheming behind closed doors, but oh-so-polite to each other on the streets and in the shops.
The good merchants of Suzail-and the shadier ones, too-were making coin hand over fist, feeding and
