saw only the two women. When his gaze came back to Storm, she looked amused.
“Try to get a little more used to it,” she said. “Start now.”
Arclath sighed, sketched a parody of a court bow, and sank down among the blankets. His life had changed dramatically in a bare handful of days, and the changes still seemed to be coming-and coming faster.
He hoped he’d manage to stay in his saddle during the wild ride ahead.
Manshoon favored the three frightened faces around the table with an affable smile.
He was indulging himself like the most overblown nobles, he knew, with all of these leering, airy utterances and glee-but by the kiss of Bane himself, it was so utterly fun playing a dastardly villain to the hilt. And after all, why not? Who was to stop him now?
With Elminster dead, a blithely unaware and scarcely defended Cormyr was a certain Manshoon’s for the taking, if he set no foot wrong in overeagerness.
So call this jauntiness a reward, richly won foolery that, after all, had more than a century of accomplishment behind it-unlike the empty, sneering strutting and peacock-screeching of this kingdom’s young nobility.
Why shouldn’t he?
Yet he’d missed chances and marred perfect schemes before. Elminster or no Elminster, this realm was still a prize.
A prize yet unconquered which had rebuffed formidable foes before.
Moreover, it had too many mages-however lacking in spells, prudence, and cunning-propping up its throne to dismiss its taming as an idle day’s undertaking.
Chortlingly manipulating or not, he must keep to his plan. Part of which held that he must not, under any circumstances, publicly announce his presence or even existence for some time to come. He must always work through others. Overboldness and impatience had been his besetting flaws in the past; hereafter, he was determined not to repeat them.
“New flaws for old,” he murmured to himself. “That’s my road…”
“L–Lord?” Sraunter dared to ask. With a smirk, Manshoon waved the question away.
He had planned all along to cause an uprising at the Council-not a hard thing to achieve, after all-in hopes of bringing about a few deaths. An Obarskyr or two and a handful of nobles. Particular nobles. That should eliminate some of the stubborn stalwarts in his path and push Cormyr to the verge of war.
At least three different Sembian cabals sought the same ends but, hopefully, were as of yet unaware of his presence. So, too, were some rather foolishly over-ambitious merchants of Westgate, and of course the Shadovar.
If this ignorance was genuine and continued long enough, these other players might unwittingly help make this Council of the Dragon a blood-drenched disaster. If he managed matters properly, they would remain ignorant of Manshoon for a tenday or more… which should be time enough.
The upheaval of violence and a failed Council would of course afford a chance to move his pawns higher in the court hierarchy, and “his” nobles into favor.
Yet there was a problem.
And why not? There was always a problem. Usually a host of them.
This particular problem was rooted in Elminster’s meddling, of course. One last gift from his hated foe.
With Stormserpent’s treason exposed and most of that expendable lordling’s callow young noble allies wounded and abed-and so unable to attend the Council-Emperor-to-be Manshoon lacked time to reach and influence replacements for his cause, new nobles he could manipulate into furthering his schemes at the Council and thereafter.
The ghostly Princess Alusair had hounded him out of the palace, but faded rapidly once outside its walls, so he’d eluded her and set about founding another base nearby in Suzail. Enter handy Sraunter…
He hadn’t planned to awaken Fentable and Mreldrake as his agents again so soon after withdrawing from their minds, and doing so was a trifle clumsy, but changed circumstances forced new strategies-and they were the most efficient agents he could bring to bear.
Hence this little meeting.
“For the good of the realm,” he purred, “the Council must be delayed. By a day, no more.”
Fentable and Mreldrake relaxed visibly. The frowns didn’t leave their faces-achieving even a day’s delay would entail much work and unpleasantness-but it was far less perilous than some of the things they’d obviously been fearing he would say, and a postponed Council did have one or two advantages…
“That is… good,” Fentable said cautiously. “The last Dragon reports have six or seven lords still on the road, journeying to Suzail. They might well not have arrived in time, and that in itself might have done grave harm to peace among the nobility.”
Mreldrake looked dubious. “At the cost of peace among those already here, who are restless enough. With another day and night to work mischief, what with all the drinking, the harbored feuds, and the armed bullyblades they’ve all brought with them…”
Manshoon shrugged. “So much was on your platter already.”
Sraunter cleared his throat. The other three all looked at him.
He stared back, flustered by the sudden attention, and then stammered, “B-but delay the Council how?”
“Well, as to that,” Manshoon said, “I have a little plan.”
That made it his turn to be stared at.
He smiled back, not discomfited in the slightest. “In fact,” he purred, “it’s why I arranged this little meeting. You three will cause the Council of the Dragon to begin a day late-though fear not, no one outside this room will know who worked the delay. If, that is, you play your parts according to my instructions.”
He leaned back in his chair. “If any of you get, ah, creative, on the other hand, the consequences could well be disastrous. Yet, we’ve worked well together in the past. I know none of you remember that, but then, that’s the beauty of it. If the days ahead go smoothly, I’ll see that you forget all about them-and need never fear a prying Highknight or wizard of war tricking something out of your mind. You’ll be able to-in all innocence-swear you know nothing at all about it. Because, you see, you won’t.”
He smiled, laced his fingertips together, and sent his brightest smile around the table, giving them time to shiver and then recover themselves.
Informed slaves are obedient slaves…
Lord Arclath Delcastle came awake very suddenly, alert and tense, and far from his usual slow, languid surfacing amid warmth and silky, soft bedsheets. He had a feeling that he was rousing at his customary time, near dawn. His skylight was nowhere to be seen, though, and his face was quite cold. He felt badly cured fur against his cheek, and from around him came the smells of wood smoke and damp duskwood and And someone bare and warm and shapely was pressed against him, with her arms around him.
“R-rune?” he whispered, his eyes flying open.
He found himself staring into the face of his beloved. Amarune was holding him as they lay on their sides, legs entwined and arms around each other, noses almost touching. Her eyes were closed and stayed that way, her breathing soft, slow, and regular. Asleep.
Arclath remembered everything then, and hastily twisted up onto one elbow to look around the cabin. The brazier was out, but the hearth was lit, the teapot sitting atop the soot-blackened grate. He saw no sign of Storm.
Good. For the moment, at least, he and Rune were alone. He could speak freely.
He kissed her, gently but insistently. Her eyes snapped open; she’d obviously been feigning slumber.
“Mmmm?” she purred.
“Ah, Rune,” he whispered, “I-ah-love you very much and want to talk to you. Right now. While it’s just the two of us.”
“Ah,” Amarune told him with an impish smile, in the gruff tones of Elminster. “Ye young lordlings don’t waste your chances, do ye? Well enough, because I want to talk to ye, too. So, start spouting words, lad. ’Tis a new day, but growing older fast!”
Arclath tensed but managed to quell his urge to thrust the warm and curvaceous body away from him.
“Ah-uh-damn you, wizard! Can’t I talk to my Rune without you stepping between us?”
“Lad,” the wizard’s growl answered him, Amarune’s eyes fixed on him, “ye can. Hopefully-with but a very
