Cormyr

Chapter 13: Affairs of State

Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

The morning sun reached through the window to tinge his beard with gold as Vangerdahast went slowly down on knees that protested every inch of the descent and said formally, “The gods watch over thee, Lady Highness.”

The crown princess frowned down at him. “Get up, Lord Vangerdahast. There’s hardly need for that-or for this oh-so-private meeting!” She cast an annoyed look at the closed door on the west wall of Brightsun Bower, where she knew a war wizard stood keeping her Aunadar at bay. “You know I’ve little liking for secrets, lord wizard, so…”

She made a gesture-as imperious as her father’s-indicating that he should speak. Now.

Vangerdahast rose. “This must be said in private, High Lady, for both our sakes and the sake of the realm. I am sworn, upon my oath and signature, to serve Cormyr. I will do so in whatever way the realm needs me, but wherever possible I shall continue to obey the Obarskyr king… or the Obarskyr heir.”

Tanalasta frowned but said nothing, waving at him to continue.

“If, High Lady, you feel you’re not yet ready to take the throne,” the Royal Magician said gently, “and the unfortunate event of your father’s going to the gods does come to pass, I want you to know-more than that, I’m obligated to inform you-that you can call on me. I am both willing and capable of serving Cormyr as regent.”

Tanalasta’s face went as white as new-fallen snow, and her eyes blazed. Vangerdahast saw bright tears well up in her eyes, but she bit her quivering lip and visibly summoned her self-control, drawing in a deep breath and putting her hand out to clasp the back of a nearby chair. In an instant, her slim fingers went white on its gilded curves.

“Loyal sir,” she said shortly, “our deep thanks for this news. I’ll… consider the matter.” Her eyes burned into him as if she heartily wished he’d fall to the floor, blazing, and be gone forever.

Vangerdahast stood unflinching in the face of her royal rage. So the lass did have her father’s fire, after all. That was good! He said softly,” ‘Twould be best for the realm, lady, if you consider not overlong.”

“You may go, lord wizard,” she replied coldly and flung out her arm to point at the door in the west wall. “And take your war wizard with you.”

Vangerdahast bowed. “Bright morning shine upon you, Lady Highness.”

Her only reply was a curt nod, her eyes two hard points. The Royal Magician turned and strode toward the door.

“My father still lives, wizard,” she growled under her breath behind him, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’d do well to remember that.”

“I never presume overmuch, High Lady,” he told the door pleasantly as be laid his hand upon it. “The realm can ill afford such presumption.” And he went out.

He gave the same pleasant smile to the curious frown that Aunadar Bleth sent his way, then signaled the war wizard Halansalim to accompany him.

Three chambers away, he halted abruptly and told the war wizard, “The crown princess is furious with me just now. Take yourself into yonder robing room and hold this!” And he put an ivory dove figurine into Halansalim’s hand.

“I hear voices,” the bearded old mage told him.

“Listen to them, and this evening tell me what orders concerning me, the war wizards, or any court officials or changes in rulership the princess utters. The magic will last until highsun, so long as she doesn’t remove the ring she’s now wearing.”

Halansalim bowed silently and made for the door of the robing room. Vangerdahast strode on, heading for the Roaring Dragon Stair at a fast, rolling pace. He had an important appointment to keep.

The broad, sunlit stair led down to the Trumpet Gate of the palace, which faced the sprawling court at the base of the hill, and gave onto the road between them hard by the Crown Bridge. Ahead lay the court stables, and beyond the stables, all along the southern shore of Lake Azoun, sprawled the vast, many-towered bulk of the court. Bhereu had been taken this way already, to lie in state in the busy Marble Forehall, passed by folk crossing and crisscrossing the mirror-polished pavement between the Inner Ward, the Duskene Chamber, the Retiring Rooms, the Rooms of State, no fewer than four grand staircases that all descended into the forehall, and the Sword Portal.

It was the Sword Portal he was heading for now. Most folk in Suzail had stood before those massive double doors at least once in their lives, gaping at the armor plate that sheathed the thick timbers. Everyone in the city knew that the door was as thick as a brawny man’s forearm, and everyone in the realm knew what the thick tangle of welded-on swords that covered both doors were: the captured blades of “foes of the Crown.” The doors of the Sword Portal opened into the Processional, a long, red-carpeted hallway that led straight to the Approach Chamber, a guardpost of ornate gates and wall-mounted crossbows that in turn opened into the throne room.

What very few folk indeed knew about the Sword Portal was that when it was swung open, the narrow, man-high openings revealed in the thickness of its frame were not only guard niches, though a guard in full armor usually stood in each of them, but also passages that led into a warren of secret ways and closets in the heart of the court.

The Purple Dragon standing guard in the more westerly niche, a usually loyal man named Perglyn, was engaged in a pleasant mental calculation. Namely, how much he’d win if his wager-that Baron Thomdor would join his brother the duke in death before another two sunrises, but the king would hold on a day longer-came good. Of course, for his coin belt to be sixty-two gold lions heavier, the realm would lose its king, but-he shrugged-someone was always dying, and some must lose for others to gain. Of course, the nobles would never stand for that chit of a crown princess on the throne.. at least, not unmarried. He’d just agreed on another wager about that: the fat old court wizard would call a council, and the nobles would draw lots-or compete in paying him bribes, more likely-to see which of them would get to wed the princess and take the throne. Aye, then old Vangerdahast had best snatch his loot and vanish from the realm before the new king decided to make sure no true tale of how much the crown had cost him. The guard blinked, choked, then blinked again. The Royal Magician himself stood not a pace away, raising an eyebrow. “Pray stand aside, Perglyn,” the old wizard said pleasantly, raising his other eyebrow to match the first, for all the world as if he could hear every thought that had just rushed through Perglyn Trusttower’s head. Perglyn gulped, tried to salute and move aside at the same time, dropped his halberd with a loud clang, bent with fervent apologies to pluck it up, straightened, and

The wizard was gone, as if he’d never been there. Perglyn blinked, but young Angalaz, across the portal, was grinning from ear to ear. “Ho, most valiant Perg!” he whispered all too loudly. “Aging so fast you’ve forgotten how to hold a halberd? The Royal Magician gave you a proper pitying look as he went into the passage!”

Perglyn stopped glaring at his fellow guard-young thrust-nose!-long enough to wheel around and peer into the darkness behind him. He saw nothing, of course. When a court wizard wants to stay hidden, there is nothing to see.

The Blue Maiden Room took its name from the life-sized sculpture that stood on a plinth in its center. A modest maiden sculpted of smooth-polished blue glass sat gazing up at the sky-looking for a dragon coming to devour her, legend had it-and in the meantime holding a cloak fortuitously fetched from somewhere over strategic areas of her beauty. The maiden’s hands, feet, and breasts were much too large for the rest of her, and the overall effect was one of bold, gaudy, and surpassing ugliness.

Azoun’s father, Rhigaerd, had hated it, and his feelings of distaste were mild compared to the opinions held by several Obarskyr queens prior to his reign, but several sages swore that the maiden was somehow connected with the good fortune of House Obarskyr and should never be broken up, defaced, or lost.

So when a careless court sage dabbled overmuch in forbidden sorceries and managed to blow up himself and the topmost room of a tower in the court, Rhigaerd had the maiden raised into the room while it was being rebuilt and walled in there. A narrow ladder shaft was the only way into the lofty, enclosed turret room, and the steep climb to get to it, up through the hidden heart of the court, made the maiden a favorite place for disgusted sword captains to send bumbling soldiers. “Go up and polish the maiden” was still heard on the streets of Suzail as a slightly more polite alternative to saying, “Lose yourself-far away, and now!” But only slightly…

Nevertheless, it was relatively unusual for the dusty maiden to have visitors in her dark, lofty chamber, but two men stood leaning on either side of her now, in poses that suggested they were overly familiar with the lass. A drifting globe of soft mage light hovered above them, making the maiden glow eerily, but neither man noticed. They were too busy remaking Cormyr.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Ondrin Dracohorn was saying in a harsh whisper, “when the Royal Magician of the realm would have the time-and desire-to hear my dreams for Cormyr.”

Vangerdahast shrugged. “The day has come, so say on and you need not whisper. My spells have shielded this place against prying magic and people coming up from below. No one can hear us.”

“Aye, good,” Ondrin said with an excited smile. “Then I’ll not waste overmuch time.”

In truth, Vangerdahast hadn’t heard that the man had ever wasted so much as the time it took to blink, in fewer than thirty winters, he’d bought his way from obscurity to prominence among the eastern nobles. Not a tenday passed that Ondrin Dracohorn didn’t-quietly, mind you-buy this farm or that warehouse with the coins that poured into his lap, it seemed, from his busy fleets based in Marsember and Saerloon. There were the usual whispers of smuggling, piracy, slaving, and running provisions out to the Pirate Isles, and in truth, it was hard to think of any honest shipping bringing quite so many coins. But on the other hand, it was hard to think of Ondrin Dracohorn as a competent slaver.

Or pirate, or just about anything else. His short stature, ordinary looks, and pale, watery blue eyes didn’t invite men to do business with him or maids to go to revels with him, but he seemed to suffer no shortage of either. Perhaps, Vangerdahast conjectured, the prevalence of folk greedy for power and easy money explained it.

Ondrin was as exultant as a small boy to be “in the know” and at the heart of deals and important events, but he seemed not to see that he stood outside most real intrigues in the court of Suzail, because-as everyone knew-he was one of the biggest loose tongues in the kingdom. Something in his inner being compelled him to tell secrets to just about everyone he met.

Ondrin liked to drink-he was fumbling with a belt flask now-and watch dancing girls, and impress folk with his wealth. He dressed in the height of fashion. Right now he was wearing a violent flame-orange cross-sash secured with a metal brooch as large a man’s face. The brooch depicted a two-headed serpent transfixed on three swords, but the sash clashed horribly with the blood-purple ornamental half-cloak he’d clipped to it. Vangerdahast was thankful for the brooch, however. Keeping his eyes on that scene of serpent and swords was enabling him to keep his face straight as the excited whispers went on.

Ondrin took a pull of cordial, coughed, exhaled noisily-by the gods, cherryfire mixed with… with… mint wine? Vangerdahast glided a step back. The noble said, “Well. Listen, then: I see a Cormyr free of the uncertainty of today, with a king lying near death and the realm stirred up like bees when a hive is broken open. I see a Cormyr where the poor are richer, and the Dragon Throne less decadent. I see a Cormyr-“

Gods, but the man had good eyes, thought Vangerdahast. He was careful to let nothing of his thoughts show on his face, he was going to need this man.

“-in which the laws are more just, and the gauntlet of authority lighter!”

“Good, good,” the Royal Magician said encouragingly, leaning forward to put a hand on the Blue Maiden’s knee in quickening excitement. “And how will we reach this better, brighter realm?”

“‘Tis a swift and simple thing,” Ondrin said, watery eyes alight. “You, as regent, turn over control of the local Purple Dragon detachments all across the realm to the nobles whose lands they patrol. Then name a king-get someone to marry Tanalasta, I’ll put myself forward if she hasn’t been promised to someone already-and call the first true council in Cormyr’s history The king can only rule as far as the nobles-by vote, one vote per holding-say he shall, so that we, the nobility, will hold the true power in Cormyr.”

“You interest me,” Vangerdahast said, dropping his own voice to an excited murmur and glancing around to be sure the maiden hadn’t lowered her head to watch them, “but say on. You know how hidebound the old families are. I’ll need to speak strongly to persuade them to do anything that so weakens the crown. How does Cormyr profit by a council of nobles having a say over the king?”

Ondrin leaned forward until his ornate pin clanked against the maiden’s plinth. “Nobles, new and old, are always short of money. However much one has, there’s never enough-do you know how much servants eat?- and so no noble, once his pride is set at rest by knowing his votes are just as good as those of any other noble, with the old royalblood pecking order swept away and no king hurling absolute decrees about, is going to act in any way that hurts his coffers. We’ll govern to enrich ourselves, and so enrich everyone, as they do in Sembia, except that we’ll have some control over our realm and can act together to keep Cormyr strong!”

Vangerdahast was nodding like an old man over one tankard too many. “Your words are fair indeed, Lord Dracohorn. I think we can ride together on this, taking Cormyr to brighter days, indeed. But I’ll need your help to do it.”

“Yes?”

“You are the only man in the realm with broad enough influence to give me the support I need. The princesses-both of them, but in particular Crown Princess Tanalasta-are violently opposed to any regency, and in particular to me. They view me as some sort of spider who tugged their father this way and that, and they want me in my tomb, not standing beside the Dragon Throne. The only folk standing between the Purple Dragons they can hurl at me and my paltry spells-oh, I can topple a tower or two, but not whole armies!-are the nobles. The nobles listen to you, from one end of this realm to another. So I need you. Cormyr needs you.”

“Say on!” Ondrin Dracohorn had practically climbed up onto the maiden’s lap in his eagerness.

“Well,” Vangerdahast said slowly, “you and all the realm have heard tales about the scheming Royal Magician… about how I manipulate the king to do this and his courtiers to do that, using my war wizards when I have to. Everyone talks about the way I run Cormyr from the shadows behind the throne… and mostly they grumble about it.” He leaned forward until his nose was almost touching Ondrin’s and added, “So, knowing that about me, would you consider supporting me for the regency, to win a brighter future for Cormyr, free of the ever-present Obarskyr philandering? We’ve seen Azoun in half the bedchambers of the land, and he’s not the first, let me tell you. Do we really want to see his daughters doing the same and have to dance to their every amorous whim?”

Ondrin’s face grew serious. “Openly support you as regent against the wishes of the princesses?”

“Yes,” the wizard said. “I need you to do that, or I’ll have to flee the realm soon, and without me, your dream of a council of nobles can never be more than that: a splendid but windblown fancy.”

“I-I ache to say yes,” Ondrin whispered, drawing himself up. “And yet I dare not do so yet. First I must sound out some of my noble friends-in strict confidence, of course, and saying nothing of our meeting or your personal feelings at all-to be sure that enough of us are ready for such a brave change… or our necks may be on the block before our behinds ever find a council seat.”

“Well said,” Vangerdahast agreed, stroking his beard. “Go and see where the nobles stand, then, and we’ll meet again when you send word to me.” He grinned and shook his head. “Gods, Dracohorn, but this plan of yours shines brightly!”

“Doesn’t it, though!” Ondrin almost shouted, then shrank down and clapped a hand over his mouth, looking scared.

“Have no fear,” the Royal Magician said swiftly. “Nothing has disturbed my wards, but you’d best go while they still last. I can keep you cloaked until you reach the Lion Cellar. Go through the back of the third cask, mind, the fourth leads straight into a guardpost!”

“Yes,” Dracohorn agreed, eyes ablaze again. “Away now, to rescue Cormyr on a bright day soon!”

“Indeed,” Vangerdahast agreed, lifting the lid that covered the top of the shaft. Ondrin sketched a dramatic salute-which the wizard matched, moving his hands grandly-and hurriedly started down the ladder.

The Royal Magician watched him descend, hoping the fool wouldn’t miss his grip on a rung and fall. When the noble was safely out of sight, he let his mage light fade and patted the Blue Maiden affectionately. “Good girl! Thanks for the loan of your parlor again.” Smiling grimly, he started down the shaft himself. As sure as the sun would set this night, Ondrin was one of the biggest loose tongues in the kingdom, word of this oh-so-secret meeting was sure to spread rapidly.