Cormyr

Chapter 23: Encounters and Expeditions

Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)

“I do believe, dear, that we can finally say that Arabel has become truly civilized,” Darlutheene Ambershields declared, opening her violet eyes very wide and waving a ring-encrusted hand. Gems flashed and sparkled in the light of near highsun for a dazzling instant before her hand dipped, rising again with a fresh glass of cordial.

“Why, Darlutheene-that outpost of uncultured bumpkins?” Blaerla Roaringhorn asked in disbelief, opening her own brown eyes very wide as well. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Well,” Darlutheene purred, “with the news this morning-of nobles found knifed in their beds, and the knives still buried in them, bearing the arms of rival noble houses-I do believe the intrigues of Mabel are finally approaching those of Suzail!”

“No!” Blaerla gasped, color flooding into her cheeks and eyes sparkling with fresh excitement. “Nobles? Knifed in their beds? Why?”

Darlutheene waved a languid, cordial-bearing hand and fluttered her long lashes. They were dusted with gold this morning. “They say that Princess Alusair led her band of noble young rapscallions into the city over the rooftops, to-” she lowered her voice dramatically-“work their deadly slaughter.”

“But why would she do that?” Blaerla asked, brown eyebrows furrowed in genuine puzzlement. Then she added cattily, “I thought she liked nobles in their beds-male nobles, and lots of them.”

Darlutheene gave a little crow of laughter that made her several chins shake heartily, then slapped at her confidante’s arm with perfumed fingertips. “Ah, shrewdly said, Blaerla! Shrewdly said!”

Blaerla flushed with genuine pleasure and held out her own glass for a refill. Darlutheene awarded her with a delicate pouring of her best ruby-hued Elixir du Vole and continued. “Why, dear, don’t you see? She’s removing nobles who’ve declared their loyalty to our dear court wizard-because certain noble houses, I’ve heard, are hiring mages in Sembia, Westgate, and farther afield to organize a raid on the palace! She needs to be sure that the families working for the wizard won’t foil them!”

Blaerla squealed with excitement, almost-but not quite-spilling her cordial in her bouncing breathlessness. Her low-cut gown briefly displayed movement akin to a ship breaking up in heavy, rolling waves. Darlutheene could only watch in fascination as the perfume wafted forth from her friend’s heavily gem-and-fine-chain-adorned front. Blaerla asked, “Raid the palace? Why? Oh, Darlutheene Ambershields, before all the gods, tell me why!”

“I have heard they’re coming for the king, of course,” Darlutheene said smugly. “To wrest him away-sickbed and all-from Vangerdahast’s clutches. Of course, with all the evil spells that have been laid on him by now, they’re probably too late. For all we know, Azoun could be a zombie under our dear Royal Magician’s control, even as we speak!”

“Oh!” Blaerla squealed, clutching her glass to her ample bosom, “this is all so exciting!” She felt the cold glass against her flesh, remembered what she was holding, and drained it in a single gulp.

Holding it out for more, she said triumphantly, “We are truly favored of the gods to dwell here in Suzail, with the eyes of all the world upon us, while all these… dramatic, important things are happening!”

Darlutheene patted her friend’s cheek fondly, seeming not to see the empty glass held out to her. “Yes, yes, dear,” she said fondly. “Of course we are.”

Had Blaerla not been quite so excited, the two fine-gowned ladies might have heard a brief commotion in the street below. The Purple Dragon sword captain Lareth Gulur, a veteran of the Tuigan War, had just nodded a wordless greeting to a war wizard he knew slightly-Ensibal Threen, a mild-mannered sort-when out of the crowd strode a noble in deep-blue velvet and white shimmersheen, his fingers bristling with rings. One of the Silverswords, Lareth thought, wrinkling his brow as he delved in his memories for the man’s name. He was rather chubby, with long blond hair and a wispy mustache of the same hue-gods, don’t these young fools know what they look like, with a few brave hairs sprouting from otherwise bare upper lips?

“Know, Vangerdahast-loving wizard, that it is I, Ammanadas Silversword, who brings down upon you forthwith your richly deserved doom!” the young fop snarled.

Ammanadas, that was it! Lareth almost smiled at the haughty little puppy for his helpfulness-until he saw the long, glittering skinning knife flash out of the noble’s sleeve.

The wizard Ensibal had turned at the sudden, ringing declaration, and in doing so presented his throat to the blade. The Silversword obligingly plunged the blade into the proffered throat. Blood fountained, and the war wizard collapsed like a toppled oak as screams went up on all sides and folk scurried about, either to get clear or to find a better view.

The Silversword noble made a disgusted sound and leapt back, almost into the Purple Dragon’s arms. Lareth had his own dagger drawn by then. The Purple Dragon used the dagger’s pommel with a heartiness driven by fury, clouting the young noble across the back of the head. Ammanadas Silversword fell limply to the cobbles, and Lareth stepped around him to see to the wizard.

Lareth Gulur did not need his battlefield memories to know that Ensibal Threen’s life was hanging by the most slender of threads. He sheathed his dagger and waved at people to keep clear, in case violent magic was triggered by the wizard’s death.

“Gulur? Gulur! For the throne’s sake, man, what happened here?” The shocked and angry voice behind him belonged to Hathlan, a senior officer of the Purple Dragons.

“Get a priest. A noble knifed this wizard because he supported our Lord High Wizard, or at least the young fool thought he did. I knocked out the noble, and he might have his wits scrambled a trifle, but he’ll live,” Lareth replied without turning. His eyes were on the gathering crowd, looking for nobles-or anyone else-trying to slip away.

“All of them have their wits scrambled a trifle,” Hathlan snorted. “There’ve been attacks like this all across the realm these last few days. The nobles are seizing their opportunities and settling scores, real and imagined.” Then he was off, bellowing for a healer.

Lareth looked at his superior, then at the fallen war wizard. “Cormyr is balanced on a sword edge,” he murmured, “with years of red war waiting on either hand should we fall.”

“Have you heard the news? Some noble just slaughtered a war wizard right out on the street!” The speaker, a new arrival to the Snout Room, was breathless with excitement, but not so breathless that he couldn’t gasp out news this good.

“It’s beginning, then,” Rhauligan muttered. He looked as if one of the high-quality turrets he sold had crashed to the ground.

Dauneth Marliir, the young Arabellan noble, was gaping at the new arrival as the man bustled on down the Snout Room, bawling his news. The man’s words had distracted the young nobleman from the warm knee and rather revealing charms of the tavern dancer who sat drinking with them. She was an old friend of Rhauligan’s, the merchant had said heartily, but was lavishing her affections on Dauneth.

The dancer, Emthrara, kissed Dauneth on the cheek, seeking to restore his attentions. Dauneth blushed and hoped the hunger he felt for the young woman wasn’t showing too much. He swallowed. What was he doing, thinking about women when Cormyr was crumbling into war outside?

“They’re saying up at the palace that Princess Alusair fled deeper into the Stonelands,” Emthrara said in a low, husky voice. Dauneth felt smooth skin shift against his arm and swallowed hard a second time.

The turret merchant made a small chuckle. Rhauligan knew exactly what was going through Dauneth’s mind about the dancer and did not hide his amusement. Dauneth tried not to look at the merchant’s knowing smile across the table as Emthara said quietly, “I’ve heard more talk of Vangerdahast’s possible treachery too.”

But surprise had seized hold of Dauneth. He turned his head to look at Emthrara and discovered that his lips were mere inches away from hers. He could feel the soft touch of her breath on his face. He swallowed again, grimacing. Stop it, Dauneth. This is too important!

“You were inside the palace?” he asked, his voice louder than he’d intended. Emthrara gave him a smile and a nod. Dauneth tried not to feel the soft brush of her honey-blonde hair on his cheek.

“I’m often up at the palace, Dauneth,” she said, her voice deep and musical with soft mystery. “I-have work there.”

“Oh,” Dauneth said, and then realized what she meant. “Oh!” he hoped he wasn’t blushing too furiously and thanked all the gods that neither Rhauligan nor the dancer laughed at him then. He struggled to think about what seemed more and more important and found himself asking, almost calmly, “Can you get me into the palace-unseen?”

“Why?” Rhauligan leaned forward across the table to ask that very direct question almost in a whisper. Dauneth was startled by the sudden proximity of those bristling eyebrows and lined forehead and shrank back.

“Ah… um…” he began auspiciously, and then, irritated at his own discomfort, he brought a fist gently down on the table and said grimly, “Something dark and treacherous is going on in this realm, and I’m going to do something about it.”

The other two looked at him, and Dauneth felt a sudden swelling of pride. Again neither of them laughed at him, nor did they look anything other than serious as their eyes rested on him thoughtfully.

“I know of a way to get into the palace,” Emthrara said then, “where few folk should see our arrival. A way I know of for… professional reasons.”

“I’ve never been one for waiting overlong,” Dauneth told her firmly.

“Aye,” Rhauligan said dryly. “I’ve noticed.”

He did blush then, but Emthrara laid a hand on his arm and murmured, “Come on, then.”

Dauneth followed hard on the Harper’s heels. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore. Finally he was doing something that mattered, and his skin fairly crawled with eagerness. Finally, after all these years, he felt truly alive.

“Lie down here, beside me,” the tavern dancer said in his ear, and suddenly she went to her hands and knees and crawled in under the bushes. Dauneth cast a quick look around the royal gardens, noting the helms of some Purple Dragons not far away, and followed her. Patches of bare, hard-packed ground amid the moss told him that this was a way that had been traveled a time or two before. Emthrara was lying on her belly, stretched out along the wall. “Beside me,” she murmured again, and Dauneth hastily lay down as she bade him. Emthrara added, “Watch, and then follow me quickly,” and stretched out the toe of her boot to touch a certain small stone on the wall. It gave slightly. Holding it in, she reached out her arm until her fingertips touched another stone. It moved, just a trifle-and all the stones between them quietly folded down and inward, revealing a long, low slotlike opening. Without any hesitation, the dancer rolled sideways into it with a pale flash of exposed leg.

Dauneth propelled himself after her and promptly encountered soft flesh in the darkness as he rolled into her. Behind him, there was a faint grating sound and then suddenly complete darkness again as the stones rose back into place.

He lay there, smelling cold, damp stone and earth, and-just for an instant-wondered why he was doing this.

“Take this,” Emthrara said into his ear, seeming to know exactly where it was in the darkness, “and put it into your inside pouch-the one where you keep the gems and the letters of reference your father gave you.”

Dauneth froze. How had she known about that? He’d then he relaxed. Probably just about every man she meets visiting at court carries pretty much the same things. He felt something smooth brush his fingers: a tube of parchment… a scroll, tied with a ribbon.

“Don’t crush it,” the tavern dancer murmured. “If anyone challenges your presence, show it to them and say you’ve been hired by a master you dare not reveal-Alusair, if they force an answer out of you-to give this message to the Lord High Wizard Vangerdahast personally. If you crawl straight ahead in the darkness, you’ll find steps leading up. Stand up then, but not before, and walk up the steps. There’s a door two paces beyond that, it opens inward by a pull-ring and leads to a space behind the hangings in the Blue Banners Room. Try not to be seen emerging, after you’re out, walk along unhurriedly but purposefully, as if you know where you’re going and belong there. Don’t run if a guard challenges you-oh, and try not to burn the place down or kill too many people. Good luck, young hope of the realm.”

And then a pair of soft, warm lips found his mouth in the darkness, kissed him fondly but thoroughly, and she was gone. Dauneth heard a soft swish of a shoe edge on stone, another small sound, and then nothing. He was alone in the darkness, under the very wall of the palace. His place and manner of entrance was probably not what anyone in House Marliir had intended. Dauneth grinned at that, made sure the scroll was secured, and crawled ahead into the darkness. The realm needed him, adventure awaited, and all that. Who was Emthrara, anyway?

“Oh, just to see him smiling again,” the Crown Princess of Cormyr sobbed, “smiling for me!”

“The king your father lives yet,” Aunadar said smoothly, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Is that not proof enough of his strength?”

Tanalasta burst into tears-the deep, wracking weeping of a woman who makes no effort to cover her face or hold anything back-and went to her knees on the footstool in front of her. Aunadar circled around to embrace her from in front, and she buried her face in his chest and sobbed with such force that his whole body shook. Her fingers were like claws, and Aunadar bent swiftly to murmur in her ear as his encircling arm went around her shoulders. “Lady mine, all is not lost. Whatever befalls this fair realm and your ever valiant father, my hand and heart are yours. I shall serve you with all I have, never failing nor leaving you in need-especially now, when your need is greatest. Now, as the wolves circle Cormyr, waiting and watching for your weakness. Be strong, Tanalasta, queen of my heart! Be strong, queen of the realm!”

His voice rose in passion, and Tanalasta raised bright, desperate eyes to him, tears racing down her cheeks, and reached up to him, murmuring his name through ragged sobs.

Had the king died? A woman sounded in real grief, just ahead. Dauneth almost thrust the hanging aside and strode out to offer what comfort he could, but the word “Queen” once and then again stopped him. The hanging suddenly seemed a friendly but all too flimsy shield. He’d wandered through more rooms than he could keep track of and hidden behind a lot of hangings to reach this place. Surely he must now be in the royal wing.

He looked down to be sure that he didn’t stumble and make noise. The floor was bare and clear. They even dust behind the hangings here! he thought with amazement. Then a sudden, chilly addendum struck him: When was the last time they had dusted? And would they dust again soon?

But the voices came again, and he heard the name “Tanalasta.” The crown princess! Turning to… a suitor, it seemed, for comfort. A gap in the hangings was just ahead, with aching care, Dauneth crept forward, keeping well back against the wall, and peered out.

A woman in a severe gown of the finest make knelt on a footstool with her head against the breast of a man whose arms were around her, his head bent over hers as he murmured comforting words. Dauneth knew him slightly, it was Aunadar, of the Bleth clan. All the talk he’d heard, then, was true. Above her head, Aunadar seemed almost to smile for a moment, and Dauneth looked hard at him.

No trace of the smile-if it had indeed been a smile and not a mere twitch of tired lips-came again, but the eyes of the man whose arms were around the princess were cold and somehow triumphant.

If I were deeply in love and feeling grief for my lover, would I look like that? Dauneth drew back, troubled, but not knowing what to say or do. His discovery, if anyone found him here, could very well mean his death. So he held still, hardly daring to breathe, and listened.

“If you weren’t here, Aunadar, I don’t know what I’d do…”

“Yet I am here, most royal lady, here… and your servant, forever, if you’ll grant it so! Let me be the strong shield at your back, the faithful hound who walks at your side in the shadows… and together we shall win through to bright mornings ahead!”

Dauneth winced. Where did the man find such words? The best-perfumed chapbooks of Sembian love poems?

“Oh, Aunadar, I must go to him! He may be stronger, and if he should wake again, I must be there!”

“Come then, Lady Highness!” Aunadar said grandly, throwing wide a door.

“Oh, Aunadar!” The crown princess said in loving adoration.

“Tana!” he replied, in a voice deep with passion. “My Tana!”

“Yes,” she breathed fervently, and they swept out shoulder to shoulder, fingers laced together.

Dauneth watched them go in thoughtful silence. There was definitely something amiss in this royal house, but he was too ignorant of the everyday feel of things here to put his finger on it. He had to talk to someone. Of course! Rhauligan! The merchant would know what to do now. Dauneth drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped boldly out into the open, as if he had every right to be there and was hurrying on his way, in the conduct of business crucial to the realm.

After all, wasn’t he?

“Glarasteer Rhauligan, sir, dealer in turret tops and spires, stone and wood both-you order ‘em, and we’ll build ‘em, fast and cheap an’ they won’t fall down!” the merchant introduced himself grandly as the newcomer tried to sit down next to him and Dauneth.

The newcomer peered at him suspiciously, snorted, and turned away from the table. “I was seeking someone else,” he said curtly over his shoulder, leaving the young man and the merchant in peace. Rhauligan gave him a cheery wave of farewell that somehow became an impolite gesture and then-as chuckles from other tables made the man whirl around again-a signal for more service.

A waitress with the longest, smoothest legs Dauneth had ever seen on a human drifted over. “My lord?”

“A flask of firedrake,” the merchant told her, “and two tallglasses-one for my friend here.”

The waitress started to turn, and Dauneth gave her a smile that bought him a frank and admiring one to match before she bustled away to see to warm firedrake wine and cold, salt-rimmed glasses.

“Well, lad?” Rhauligan asked in a low voice as the scion of House Marliir shifted to a more comfortable position in his chair.

Dauneth shot a dark look across the table. “No bodies falling out of doors or knife-wielding clusters of masked nobility,” he muttered, “but I did hear Aunadar Bleth comforting the crown princess.”

“And?”

“Something didn’t seem quite right,” Dauneth murmured. “He seemed just a little too happy about the king dying.”

Rhauligan shrugged. “And why not? If he’s Tanalasta’s favorite and she becomes queen, he can run Cormyr without any of the perils of ruling it. He wouldn’t be the first noble to be more in love with a woman’s position than with the lass herself, now, would he?”

“That’s true,” Dauneth agreed reluctantly and sat back with a sigh-in time to look up with a hasty smile as the waitress bent over him and set their drinks on the table, gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze, and was gone again. Despite himself, he turned his head to watch her go.

Rhauligan grinned, shook his head, and poured them both firedrake wine, watching the glasses steam and fog as the warmed liquid met chilled glass. Ah, to be young again…

“On me, lad,” he said as the young noble turned his head back to the table. Dauneth hadn’t even managed to open his mouth to protest that it was his turn, even past his turn, to pay for things, when the merchant asked, “Did anyone see you? Should I expect Purple Dragons to come in here hunting young Marliirs?”

Dauneth shook his head.

“Did you have to show your scroll to anyone?”

Dauneth shook his head again, then frowned, set down his glass, and reached into the open front of his shirt, and fumbled with the wooden toggle that held his safe pouch closed. When he drew it forth, the scroll was only a little crumpled at one end. He stared at it curiously, turning it a little in his fingers. “I wonder what it says,” he said slowly under his breath.

“So open it,” the merchant urged, sipping warm wine.

“Oh, but Emthrara-” he started to protest.

“Gave it to you to let every hairy-nosed guard who might ask your business have a read,” the merchant put in. “So…?”

Dauneth looked at him doubtfully for a moment, and then, as if of their own accord, his fingers went to the ribbon that bound it, slid it along without untying Emthrara’s knot, and let the parchment loosen of itself. Then, in sudden impatience at himself, the young noble spread the scroll out on a dry area of tabletop and read it.

There were only a few lines, in a fine, flowing hand:

“The bearer of this note is Dauneth Marliir, of noble blood and on a mission of the greatest importance to the crown. If he would see Cormyr’s future as bright as winter stars above the Stonelands, he will meet the azure-masked one in the Snout Room of the Roving Dragon at the lighting of the evening candles. Let him pass, in the name of Alusair.” Underneath that was a little mark, or personal rune, that looked like a three-petaled red flower, or perhaps a stylized crown.

Dauneth looked up at Rhauligan. “Here! Read!” He thrust the parchment across the table. The merchant read it, let his brows rise for a moment and then fall again, rolled it up carefully, replaced its ribbon, then handed it back. “Well, now, that’s handy, lad… ‘twon’t be all that long now till they light ‘em.”

The young noble sputtered. “Yes, but-but Emthrara gave me this! How did she know I’d be here? And now?” His eyes narrowed. “You told her!”

“By the gods, lad,” the merchant protested, “you’re beginning to see conspiracies behind every pillar in Suzail! Drink up and think awhile, things always go better when your thoughts go ahead of your tongue… if you take my meaning.”

Dauneth frowned. “But who does she work for? Is this truly from Princess Alusair?”

The merchant poured himself more wine. “Lad, living high is the art of finding out answers to questions like that without ever asking anyone else… d’you see?”

Dauneth sighed. “That’s right,” he said, picking up his own glass, “go all wise and graybearded on me.”

The merchant shrugged. “You had to have a woman show you how to get into the palace. I know of more than a dozen secret ways into that place, and I’m no war wizard nor courtier, O young wet-nosed conspiracy sniffer!”

Dauneth glared at Rhauligan for a moment, then slowly grinned. “All right, sir merchant. Your sword finds the gap.” He sipped firedrake wine and then frowned again. “More than a dozen?”

Whatever answer the merchant might have made was lost forever in the sudden appearance of the waitress, who leaned over their table-making Dauneth swallow, and try not to stare-to light the candles that were descending on fine chain from the ceiling. She shook her taper to extinguish it and turned to smile at the young nobleman.

Just for an instant, an azure mask seemed to cover her apple-cheeked features, and she said, in a voice not her own, “The corner back booth at Urgan’s Best Boots, as soon as you can get there.” Then her face seemed to waver and was bare again, and she gave Dauneth a wink and glided away.

Dauneth blinked. “Did you hear?”

“Spellcraft for sure,” the merchant said, draining his glass and pointing at Dauneth’s own. “You’ll be needing a guide there. Come on!”

Evening was when most shops in Suzail rolled down their shutters, set their door bars, and blew out their lamps, but down this short and apparently nameless side street, Urgan’s Best Boots still showed a light over its door. Rhauligan clapped Dauneth on the shoulder and said, “I’m off, lad. Try not to get into too much trouble.”

Dauneth nodded, replied, “You, too!” and, taking a deep breath, put one hand on his sword hilt and the other on the door handle.

He cast a last look around before entering. Rhauligan had already vanished, as if swallowed up by magic. The street was deserted. The young noble frowned, shrugged, and went in.

Urgan seemed to have vanished, too. The shop was lit but deserted. Dauneth looked around suspiciously, spotted the curtained changing booths, and headed for them, almost trembling with excitement.

He parted the curtain of the corner booth cautiously, using the hilt of his scabbarded sword. Inside stood a woman in a blue gown, her back to him. One of her legs was planted on a stool, and she seemed to be in the process of disrobing.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Dauneth muttered. The woman turned her head as swiftly as a striking snake. Emerald eyes gleamed out at him, her other features obscured by an azure mask.

“What for? Your swiftness is commendable,” was the calm reply as the woman turned to face him and let fall her gown, to reveal breeches and a tunic of the same sea-blue hue. “If you are Dauneth Marliir, I am very interested in working with you.”

“I-have the good fortune to be Dauneth Marliir, good lady,” Dauneth said, bowing low. He cast a look behind him as he rose, but the shop was still bare of Purple Dragons or anyone else. “And you are-?”

“A friend of the crown,” the masked woman replied smoothly. Her voice was not Emthrara’s, but it had a similar husky tone. The masked woman plucked up her gown from the floor and hung it on a wall hook. “I know you went to the palace earlier today. Will you accompany me there again?”

“Lady, I will,” Dauneth said without hesitation. This didn’t look like Princess Alusair, either, but then he had never seen her all that closely.

The woman seemed to know his thoughts. “I am not of royal blood,” she said, “but I am loyal to the crown. Are you?”

Dauneth met those green eyes steadily and replied, “Lady, I am. I am prepared to swear by whatever you choose, if you will it so.”

“I want nothing so dramatic. A man’s word is enough if it is the right man.”

Her words made the scion of House Marliir feel good indeed. He grasped the hilt of his sword hard, smiling in pride that lasted only for an instant. The masked woman moved a table aside as if it were made of paper, rolled back the edge of a rug with her foot, and put two fingers into a hole in the floor. She pulled, and a square of wooden flooring rose. A trapdoor common to such shops, usually used for storage.

“Follow me,” she directed simply and slid into the dark opening. Dauneth did so, finding stone steps leading down into a small room that smelled of old leather. He had a brief glimpse of shelves and shelves of boots in the radiance that suddenly bloomed into life in the palm of the woman’s hand. She was a mage!

Emerald eyes met his, and then, without a word, the woman strode away into the darkness. Dauneth followed hastily along a narrow, stone-floored tunnel. Such a tunnel was not usually common for such shops, and this one smelled of earth and nearby cesspits. The tunnel went on for a long, long time before it met with a second passage. Dauneth and the masked woman turned left, took a few paces, and then turned right again and went on. The walk was even longer this time, ending in a few worn steps that led up before they emerged in a room full of dusty cobwebs and boxes.

The masked mage turned to Dauneth, her radiance dimmed by the simple method of pressing her palm against the base of her neck. “Keep close to me and be very quiet,” she murmured. “We’re in the under-court cellars, beneath the Noble Court.”

The noble nodded, keeping a hand on his blade to prevent it from swinging and scraping against or knocking anything over. They passed through a succession of dark and dusty rooms, seeing glimmering lanterns in the distance twice, and then the woman in blue held up a hand to halt him and peered around a corner. Satisfied, she waved him on, and together they stepped past the sprawled forms of two guards, dice and cards strewn around them. “They won’t sleep all that long,” she murmured. “We must move briskly.” Beyond the guards were steps, leading to an iron-banded door, barred on their side. Dauneth and the woman lifted the bar down together, and the masked woman touched the lock with one finger. The door clicked once and shifted open a little.

Beyond was another tunnel. “I could come to master these tunnels were there not so many of them,” Dauneth muttered. The emerald eyes of the masked woman seemed to smile in answer as her head turned briefly. They went on along a dusty passage that seemed to hold a statue or something ahead.

As they drew nearer, Dauneth saw that it was a stone block, almost as large as a man, that had fallen from the roof above. He glanced up. The cavity it had come from fitted it perfectly, and a dust-covered chain descended from the darkness of the cavity to the block itself. This had been no crumbling misfortune, but a deathtrap. He looked down and saw yellow-brown bones protruding from under the stone and a skeletal arm, reaching vainly for somewhere safer. Somewhere forever beyond its reach.

He looked up to find the masked face watching his. “Don’t walk this way without me,” she said in a low voice. “There are two more of these ahead.”

Dauneth nodded soberly, and they went on. At a certain spot that to the noble looked no different than the rest of the passage, the masked mage stopped and turned to the wall beside her. She touched something and then simply stepped into the wall, her body passing into the solid stone as if it did not exist.

The young noble stared, fascinated, at the hand that reappeared out of the solid wall and beckoned to him impatiently. He went to it, clasped it with his own, and was drawn through-nothing. They were in a side passage. He blinked at the masked face and the glowing hand that went with it, and then turned to look back. A sort of veil or misty curtain seemed to hang across the mouth of the tunnel they now stood in. He extended his hand through it and waved his fingers. There was no resistance. The veil must be some sort of magical illusion, an image of a stone wall that concealed this opening.

A firm hand came down on his shoulder. He turned and followed the masked mage again until she led the way up a steep, narrow stair and into a room, where she stopped and turned to face him.

“We’re in the palace now,” she explained, “or rather under it, in the vaults that the crown princess ordered sealed. We took this last, hidden way to avoid a guardpost. I can’t risk this light any longer stand still.”

The radiance faded, and Dauneth had a last impression of her fingers weaving intricate gestures before two cool fingertips touched his eyelids. Startled, he stepped back, blinking, only to find that he could see clearly in what must be utter darkness.

Those emerald eyes seemed to be smiling at him again. Emboldened, he asked, “But if these are the royal vaults, how are we to get around? The bards always say only the Lord Vangerdahast and the royal family have keys! We’ll-“

His words died in his throat as slim hands drew a chain up out of her bodice to reveal a trio of long-barreled, dark, ornate keys. “It seems the bards are wrong for once,” the masked mage said softly. “Draw your sword now and keep watch. Danger awaits us.”

Three archways led out of the room, the masked mage chose the one to the left, and they entered a room full of small casks branded with the device of a flying bird encircled by stars. The next room held stacks of crates, and its loftier ceiling was held up by three pillars. A ladder on wheels leaned against the central pillar, and as they approached, something seemed to boil down out of the tangle of railing and platforms at the top of the contraption. It appeared as tendrils of smoke, yet the misty tentacles moved of their own volition.

“Dauneth-strike at it!” the masked mage snapped, stepping back. Without hesitation, the nobleman thrust his blade into the heart of the smokelike mass. His companion snarled out some words, and something like lightning leapt from her hands to touch his blade.

The weapon seemed to leap and then hum numbingly in his hands, and Dauneth almost dropped it, but around him the smokelike thing seemed to be shuddering and fading all at once.

In another moment, it was gone, leaving the vault silent except for his loud breathing. Dauneth stared around to find that the masked mage was already continuing on down the room to the door at its far end. He hastened after her.

“What was that?” he panted.

“A guardian,” said the mage, “one that my spells would have had little effect against. Hush now.”

The woman in the azure mask muttered a few words, and the door swung wide. Something moved in the darkness beyond: a warhelm, hanging in the air as if it rested on a man’s shoulders. It turned a little, and then flew into the room like a gliding bird, right over the mage’s shoulder.

Fire blossomed from the helm’s eye slits, twin beams of flame that stabbed out at Dauneth. The nobleman dodged behind the nearest pillar, hissing something that was half prayer and half curse. Fire scorched the stone, and sparks sprayed and tumbled around his head. Rolling, Dauneth tried to get away, keep hold of his blade, and find his feet all at once-and then purple fire exploded overhead, and the room shook soundlessly.

He scrambled up, still fleeing from the pillar, to see the masked mage gesturing him to halt. He did, staring around wildly. A pulsing, spitting sphere of purple radiance hung in the air not far from them. Dauneth stared at it. There was a round, dark shadow at the center of the sphere.

“The flying helm?” he asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

The mage nodded. “Now it will serve as our guide. We stay behind it for the next few rooms, and the guardians waiting there will leave us be, so long as you don’t touch any of them.”

They went on through chambers and down another flight of stairs into a long, narrow hall whose walls were broken by many niches, each home to a silent, unmoving suit of dark plate armor. The purple sphere floated ahead of them, and twice along the passage unseen magical barriers suddenly flared into violet radiance, flashed white, and then parted.

The masked mage ignored such displays, striding steadily ahead until she reached a closed stone door. Dauneth peered at it curiously, save for a pull-ring and a keyhole, it bore no mark. Was this what they’d come for?

The masked mage selected one of the keys, murmured something over it, put it to her lips, and then slid it into the lock.

Dauneth didn’t know what he’d expected to see beyond the door-Vangerdahast and a dozen senior war wizards bound and gagged, perhaps-but he’d thought the royal treasure vault would have gates and an inscription and guards.

The masked mage in blue strode in without hesitation, glanced around quickly, and then stepped aside, the pulsing purple sphere moving with her. Dauneth followed, his sword raised and ready. Dust rose around their boots and hung heavy everywhere else, though someone-no, several someones-had come in and crossed the room recently. Armed men stood ready for them-no, just old and ornate suits of chased and gem-studded armor. Dauneth eyed them warily, then looked around.

Along the walls sat massive chests, except to the left, where there was a row of dragon skulls. Small purple gems gleamed along the brow of each of the great bone heads.

A stuffed, well-worn minotaur stood guard over a low table where a line of crowns sat, all of them grander than the simple circlet King Azoun favored. Dauneth blinked at the size of the gems in some of them-there was one ruby as large as his own fist-and then glanced quickly around the room again, still expecting some sort of attack. Another wall displayed a row of swords, halberds, and maces. Among them was a small glass case that held the scorched head of a sledgehammer.

The footprints in the dust led to an armoire of tarnished electrum that pulsed with a faint blue glow of guardian magic. Its double doors stood open, revealing a fire-ravaged interior where ruined things had melted and dripped down to puddle on the floor long ago.

The masked mage was peering carefully at a yellowed map. As Dauneth turned to look at it, she rolled it up, thrust it back into her bodice, and announced, “Rightnow we start back. My trap sphere won’t last forever, and the helm will go free once the sphere evaporates.”

Dauneth frowned. “We’re leaving? Didn’t we come here to find something… something to save the life of the king?”

The masked head nodded. “We did and we have,” she said, turning to go. “We came to find if something was missing from this room, and it is. Now we know much more than we did before.”

Dauneth’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “We do? I don’t.”

The masked head turned back to him. “Come,” she said simply and went out the door, the purple sphere moving before her. He shrugged and followed.

The woman in blue reached past him to point and whisper. Her spell made dust swirl up from the floor of the room for a brief instant before it settled again, hiding the marks of their boots.

“The golden bull that struck the king down,” she said crisply as they swung the door closed again, “was an automaton called an abraxus, a constructed creature animated by magic. One such beast appeared in Cormyr in the past and ended up-disabled-in this room. Now it’s missing, and that means-“

“That someone who can get down here is responsible for the king’s condition,” Dauneth said slowly. “Either someone able to work the sort of magic you did to bring us past the guards and barriers, or someone in the palace.” His eyes locked with hers. “Someone in the palace is a traitor.”

“Quite so,” the lips behind the mask said softly. “Which brings us to your more difficult task…”