The Dragon's Doom

5

Feasts and Entreaties

This will be quite acceptable," the Lady Silvertree said coldly, waving the aged seneschal toward the door. He'd made the mistake of trying to be haughty to her-she was, after all, no more than a dirty and bedraggled woman claiming some grand upriver title, and accompanied by a handful of ragtag armsmen and vagabonds who could well have stolen all they'd brought-but his first glance had proven to be wrong. Very wrong.

Seneschal Urbrindur was old enough to have felt the sharp edge of two baronial tongues before the stormy bluster of his current master, and he knew real nobility when he heard and felt it. This icy wench was noble, Three take all. Was it his fault folk didn't look their proper parts anymore?

He strode stiffly out of the room he'd conducted the five wounded and furious "guests" to, and stared at the door after it closed in his face for only a brief, thoughtful moment before whirling away down the passage to deliver several sharp blows with his rod of office to heads and shoulders of the nearest handy chamber knaves.

Then he stalked off without a word to them, ignoring the hate-filled glances he knew they were giving his back. Such reactions were only fitting, after all-and Seneschal Urbrindur was very strong on what was right and fitting.

"They made a right and fitting end of as many of our horses as they could." Gloomily Craer surveyed the battered remnants of their saddlebags, flicking a last splinter of arrowshaft out of a torn tangle of leather. "I don't doubt roast horseflesh will feature prominently in tonight's feast."

"Later, Lightfingers," Embra Silvertree told him, her voice almost pleading. "I can't use the Dwaer if I fall senseless, now can I?"

Despite the arrows he still wore, Hawkril was at her side in an instant, awkwardly cradling her shoulders to hold her up. Embra sagged against him gratefully and asked, "Father?"

"Chairs, or to the floor together?" Blackgult asked, sword in hand as he peered about the room, seeking every possible spyhole and entrance.

"Floor, if we can get there gently."

Craer gave Embra a leer. "Lady, I never thought I'd hear you ask so plainly."

Tshamarra rolled her eyes and brought her hand down, ever so gently, on the broken shaft of the arrow that protruded from Craer's shoulder.

He doubled up with a shuddering sob, and she lowered him the rest of the way to the floor tiles, murmuring, "Lord Delnbone, you mustn 't hurt yourself more than you have already. Please, submit yourself to my will for once, and behave sensibly-and so live longer. Possibly."

Hawkril snorted at those honeyed words-and then hastily went to his own knees as the last surviving Talasorn gave him a hard glare.

"Close together," Embra told them, "so we can all touch." The Dwaer's power isn't endless, she added silently, using the last fading tatters of Tshamarra's spell. Not in so short a time. I've done much with it already.

"You certainly have," Blackgult murmured into her ear as he lowered Embra to the floor. "Though if admittedly twisted memories serve me, 'tis more a matter of the wielder's mind reaching limits than 'tis a Stone becoming exhausted."

"Well, that's consoling," Craer hissed through clenched teeth.

"We're being watched," Tshamarra whispered, joining them on the floor. More than once she glanced straight up, as if to repeatedly make sure nothing deadly was plunging down from the ceiling.

"Of course. Magic?" Blackgult muttered.

"No. Eyes. Moving, in the wall tapestry behind you."

"As long as 'tis just spying, and not darts that strike. We must shield Embra, until-"

"Of course," Tshamarra whispered back, with a mocking smile. "Magic?"

"No," Blackgult replied, in a ghostly parody of his 'old baron' growl. "Those charming armored curves of yours-augmented by my old bones."

The Talasorn sorceress flicked an appraising glance up and down his body. "Hmmph. Well-fleshed ancient bones, I'd say."

The Golden Griffon struck a preening, feminine pose that would have done credit to the most alluring of court ladies, and then relaxed back into his customary wary lounging. "I'll take this side," he murmured into Tshamarra's amused-and astonished-face. "See if you can cover the rest without letting our stubborn lion of an armaragor rear up to try to do his duty no matter how sorely wounded he is, for once."

"Lord Ezendor," Hawkril protested, from somewhere beneath Tshamarra, but Blackgult waved a quelling hand.

"I'm your Lord no longer. Ezendor, yes-and as your friend I tell you: belt up and lie still. You've more arrows in you than the rest of us put together. Embra?"

"Forgive my selfishness, but this will go best if I'm free of pain: Now, Sarasper showed me… oh, yes…"

They felt her convulse, and then twitch and shudder from fingertips to toes. When it passed, Embra opened her eyes, smiled-and let the healing flow into them, like a warm and tingling tide.

As her four companions groaned and gasped, feeling pain ebbing from them, Blackgult moved like an attentive servant in response to looks she gave, gently drawing forth specific arrows at her bidding. Craer jerked when surrendering his shaft, mewing in helpless pain, but Tshamarra held him in a suddenly iron grip when he might otherwise have jerked away… and in both near silence and a surprisingly short time the healing was done, and they were whole again.

"We must be very careful not to lose that," Hawkril rumbled, patting the Stone as he flexed his arms and shoulders experimentally. "I'd not want to return to the days of pilfering trinkets from the Si-"

"Hush," Embra said severely, slapping his cheek gently with the tips of her fingers. "The walls listen, remember?"

"They also watch," Tshamarra said dryly, "which leaves me in strong need of Lord Delnbone temporarily shorn of his usual pranks, leering, and clever comments, to hold up a privacy cloak whilst I bathe-hmm, mintwater; they're not entirely uncivilized here-and don suitable finery for the feast to come."

"Ah, yes. Platters heaped with sleep-potions and poisons," Craer smirked. "I hope the seasoning, at least, is to my liking."

"I'll be using magic and expecting to find taints with it," Embra told him, turning to the saddlebags with the Stone glowing. "Now, let's see what the enthusiastic bowmen of Stornbridge left us."

"Not much of this one," Tshamarra said disgustedly, holding a torn fragment of gown up against her. "Ruined."

Craer winked. "Fallen, perhaps, but I'd hardly say ruined. The gown's had it, though."

The Lady Talasorn gave him a cold and level look. "Lord Procurer, I believe you're still on probation. Conduct yourself accordingly."

Craer glanced at Hawkril for sympathy, but the hulking armaragor gave him a grin, a wink, and the words, "Want to really unsettle our host? Wear that gown yourself!"

"Thousands of men in Aglirta," Embra told a ceiling thankfully still bereft of plummeting dangers, "and I have to travel with two afflicted with the delusion that they're uproariously funny jesters, fit for the courts of the South!"

Blackgult turned. "Two?"

Embra held up a warning hand. "Don't try to join their ranks. Just don't."

The Golden Griffon gave her a slow smile, and said merely, "This bids fair to be an extremely interesting meal."

"But, my Lord Overduke," the cortahar stammered uncertainly, "my lord the Tersept gave us very specific ord-"

"So," the hulking armaragor growled, glaring down from the burly height of a full two heads taller, "you choose to be as much of a traitor to Aglirta as he?" He hefted his warsword. "Well, then…"

"Ah, there's no need for bloodletting," the knight said hastily. "I'm sure-"

"Hurrh," the mountainous man in armor told him with grim humor "So am I."

Behind a nearby wall, two men in robes adorned with crawling serpents traded glances. " Tis working!" Brother Landrun hissed. "He must never've met Anharu before-three breaths, and he accepts that this is the overduke!"

The Lord of the Serpent arched an eyebrow and displayed his direjaws smile. "But of course."

The young page pressed into service as a herald stumbled over their names and tides, but Blackgult said merely, "Enough, lad. They know who we are.

'Overdukes,' all, is as fine a way of saying it as any. Show us our seats and introduce these fine lords of Stornbridge to us, hmm?"

The young man stared at him, stammered something, and then hurriedly set about doing just that.

"Lord Blackgult," Tshamarra hissed, "I'm not a noble of Aglirta, nor-"

"You are now," he growled, "for this night at least. You can renounce your title of 'Overduke' in the morning, but try doing so now and I'll paddle your bare behind-yes, in front of all these Storn men. 'Tis the agreed-upon ritual; just ask Craer."

The Lady Talasorn gave them both withering looks. Craer grinned like a maniac, but Blackgult merely raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Surveying them both for a long, silent moment ere they turned to follow the herald, she sighed and followed them to the feast table.

Five men were already seated around its far end, regarding the over-dukes expectantly. Six chamber knaves were ranged around the walls behind, but no Storn woman could be seen in the room-though none of the overdukes doubted that some of the eyes undoubtedly watching from the dozen or so high gallery windows were feminine. The tier of open balconies just above the chamber knaves, however, were as deserted as most of the places down the long feasting table. It seemed the Tersept of Stornbridge had little interest in displaying his humiliation to his people.

The young herald led each guest to a specific seat, named them, and then went to stand behind each seated man of Stornbridge in turn, reciting their tides carefully.

Each overduke mentally shortened the flow of grand words-how many high offices could a market town afford, anyway?-to simpler names. The old, bristle-whiskered man regarding them with open hostility was the local lornsar, or captain of cortahars, Lornsar Ryethrel. The more elegant and urbane man beside him was the castle official they'd already verbally dueled with: Seneschal Urbrindur. Next to Urbrindur, at the head of the table, was the tersept. On Lord Stornbridge's other side was his younger and more handsome echo, a man who proved to be both the Scribe and Coinmaster of Stornbridge, one Eirevaur. Beside the scribe sat a scarred mountain of a man with murderous eyes, who was introduced as the Tersept's Champion. Enforcer, more like, Embra thought silently. She suspected Champion Pheldane was well armed indeed under his satin shoulder robe. He looked at her as if she was a brothel-lass who'd set her price too high-a price he was looking forward to forcibly lowering. Soon.

Blackgult had drawn the seat beside the glowering champion. Across the table, Craer would be sitting beside the lornsar. Embra caught Tshamarra's glance, and rolled her eyes. Oh, this was going to be a jolly feasting, indeed…

At a curt nod from the seneschal, the stammering herald withdrew. The overdukes seated themselves, Hawkril casually swinging his chair up like a weightless toy to examine its legs and underside-and Embra not bothering to hide the faint singing sound of the Dwaer weaving a shield against archery around them all.

"Stornbridge is honored by your unexpected presence among us," the tersept said with a sunny smile. "I apologize again for the misunderstanding that greeted your arrival so painfully, but trust we can dine together corthatly and forge true bonds of friendship, as loyal fellows of Aglirta."

"That is also our hope and trust," Blackgult told him gently, raising a goblet in salute but not putting it to his lips.

Craer sampled his wine very lightly, and then thrust his leg against Embra's, under the table. Unseen beneath the tabletop she touched the Dwaer to his hand and sent magic flooding into him.

The procurer swayed slightly as the burning sensation of the poison passed, and then smiled at Stornbridge. "You all enjoy mraevor in your wine? I find it makes most vintages too salty, but perhaps this pleases local Stornbridge palates."

"You dare-?" Lornsar Ryedirel growled, turning upon him. Craer gave him a smile that could only be described as sweet. "Ah, no, Lornsar, I'm afraid someone else has been daring. Unless of course, you'd like to achieve that selfsame condition, by drinking of this goblet?"

He held it out, just beyond the lornsar's reach. The furious captain-of-guards slapped at it, as if to dash its contents across Craer's face, but then abruptly-at just about the time the procurer's other hand, under the table, put the very cold tip of a dagger against the upper edge of Ryethrel's codpiece-fell still and silent, sweating suddenly.

"Or perhaps you, Seneschal?" Craer asked mildly, preferring the goblet as if Ryedirel had said and done nothing. When Urbrindur gave him only stony silence, he lifted his brows and added mildly, "Anyone?"

"Perhaps the entire cask was tainted," Tshamarra said lightly, handing her own goblet to Craer. He sipped, nodded, and nudged Embra under the table again. Her healing was swifter this time, and was promptly followed by another spell unfamiliar to him.

The contents of Tshamarra's goblet promptly burst into blue flames under Craer's nose, so he put it carefully down. As he did so, his own goblet erupted, followed by those of the other overdukes. Those of the men of Stornbridge glowed briefly blue, but didn't ignite.

"My thirst seems to have quite fled," Embra announced calmly to the pale-faced tersept, a dark challenge in her eyes. Under the table, she let her spell fade, and the blue flames died away. If such menaces were going to be proffered all night, she'd need the Dwaer for more important things than feast table tricks…

"I-I know not how this could have happened, but-" Lord Stornbridge stammered, looking furious as well as frightened.

"Yes," Blackgult agreed, staring at him, "I can well believe that. The interpretation of orders all too often surprises those who give them-as I've learned often down the years, to my cost. Why don't we exchange platters and goblets henceforth, lords, and so quell all suspicions? I would like to form friendships here, this day."

Lord Stornbridge opened and closed his mouth without uttering a sound for a moment, and then in almost desperate haste gobbled, "Why, yes, let's do just that! I-I-"

"Can't think why that didn't occur to all of us before," Embra finished for him smoothly, coolly meeting the glares of the lornsar, the seneschal, and the champion in turn. The coinmaster merely looked thoughtful.

Tersept Stornbridge nodded in energetic agreement, and quaffed his own-safe-wine deeply. "If you don't mind my asking, and the answer's not too delicate a matter… what fair wind brings you to Stornbridge? We are, after all, far from the most important banner-stand in Aglirta!"

Surprisingly, it was Hawkril who made answer. "Lord," he rumbled carefully, "we have our duties to the River Throne, as you have yours. One is to travel the Vale consulting with common folk, visiting merchants, and local rulers alike, as to troubles that need seeing to and needs and wants Aglirtans feel. Even backcountry shepherds know Raulin Castlecloaks is a different sort of a king, but they're mistaken as to how. 'Tis not that he's a lad without royal lineage-'tis that he wants to understand what's afoot in the Vale, hearing from both high and low, and shape his decrees accordingly. Our eyes and ears are a part of that."

"Y-yes," Lord Stornbridge's smile was sickly as he saw reports of arrow volleys and poisoned wine.

Evidently the seneschal had more swiftly entertained similar thoughts. Seeing the tersept struggling for words, he asked, "Has the King yet shared any views on what he sees for Aglirta in the seasons ahead? We're all weary of warring barons, plundering mercenaries, and priestly strife, but what road can Castlecloaks-pray pardon, King Castlecloaks-see to take us out of all that?"

At that moment, servants came through the curtains behind the tersept bearing steaming platters of roast boar, garnished with medallions of symraquess-the tart and juicy orange fruit so plentiful in far Sarinda, but rarely seen north of Elgardi.

"We're moving first," Lady Silvertree replied crisply, breaking the custom of not talking politics in front of servants, "to drive out, capture, or come to strict and exacting terms with all wizards of power in the Vale. Any desiring to dwell in Aglirta must work closely with the crown-and not stand behind, or hire themselves out to, any warlord hungry for the throne."

"All wizards of power?" the lornsar echoed derisively.

"All, Lord Ryethrel," Embra said firmly, giving him a look like a swordthrust. "Myself included." A brief boiling of the air around them might have just been a warning of the magic she commanded-or a spell seeking magics and poisons lurking on the platters. Servants were bringing bowls of mushrooms swimming in spiced golden sauce, now, and breads baked in fanciful shapes, but Embra gave them no visible attention. More important to her companions, her foot sought none of theirs under the table.

"For the same reasons," Blackgult added, "we work against Serpent-priests who seek to instruct barons and tersepts. The King desires all who hold titles at his pleasure to stand alone, making their own decisions so long as they obey his royal decrees-not follow the whispers of those known to oppose the rightful rule of Flowfoam."

The lornsar nodded as if satisfied, but the seneschal scowled and asked, "And if one who happens to worship the Serpent presents us a fair idea or sound proposal?"

"Do as the King, his barons and tersepts, and yes, even overdukes always do," Craer spoke up. "Consider why he offers his scheme. What true gain does it offer you? And what real benefit, to him? If you accept or adopt it, what else has he moved you toward, and why?"

"There may not be any crime in a particular idea or counsel," Tshamarra said quietly, "whether it comes from Snake-lover, fell mage, or rapacious Sirl trader. There is a crime, now, in not informing royal messengers and heralds of such entreaties made to you. Normal private business dealings in the Vale aren't our affair-but dealings with all wizards, clergy, and oudanders, and all matters of acquiring magic, weapons, armor, and hireswords, are.

The tersept and his seneschal blinked, but the Coinmaster shook a narrow scroll from his sleeve and made a swift note on it, murmuring, "That seems prudent enough."

The seneschal shot Eirevaur a look that had drawn daggers in it, but the handsome young man merely sprinkled a pinch of powder onto his ink to "set" it, nodded politely and expressionlessly to Urbrindur, and turned his attention again to the Lady Talasorn.

"I understand," Lord Stornbridge said gently to Tshamarra, his tone very careful not to reproach or deride, "that you are both a sorceress and an outlander. How is it that the King trusts you?"

The seneschal nodded in satisfaction at this thrust-and Champion Pheldane leaned forward, transformed in an instant from a coldly watchful statue to a hungry hound straining eagerly on its leash.

"He has his good reasons," the Lady Talasorn replied mildly. "As, I'm sure, you have to trust those who serve you. We all have our own tests for loyalty, do we not?"

Seneschal Urbrindur raised his goblet toward the ceiling and turned it, as if thoughtfully examining the shifting reflections of candlelight on its glossy flanks. He seemed almost to be dreaming as he asked it softly, "And how can one ever know when someone mighty in sorcery has fairly passed a test of loyalty? What sort of test can stand untainted by magic?"

"A test of deeds," Blackgult replied flatly, "when easy personal gain and safety lies on one side and battle peril, pain, hardship, and loyalty sit upon the other. All of us who bear the title of 'Overduke' have passed such tests, not knowing we were being tested." He helped himself to the platter before him and added calmly, "If you persist in proffering threats and insults in the presence of poisonings, my lords, we'll have no choice but to regard you as failing such tests… and we all know what happens to traitors."

"Yes, I believe we do," Lornsar Ryethrel said softly, from across the table. "They declare themselves regent, and then get made overdukes, and ride up and down the Vale speaking grand words and presuming to pass judgments on the few Aglirtans who survived their personal feuds and willful wars."

Craer regarded the lornsar thoughtfully. "He's from the Isles."

"I know," Blackgult replied, his gaze locked with Ryethrel. "He's the man who burned down Sea Rock Hall on Nantantudi with dozens of his countryfolk inside-most of them women-because a few of my warriors were searching the place, and he wanted the invaders he dared not face blade-to-blade dead."

The lornsar half-rose with a snarl-but came to a gurgling halt as a thin, whisper-sharp blade appeared across his throat from nowhere. No hand held it; it floated serenely with its keen edge against Ryethrel's windpipe as if by… magic.

Craer looked at it with surprise. The weapon was his, but he hadn't-

The sheath, nigh his elbow, was empty.

He looked up from it with a frown into the eyes of Tshamarra, who gave him an impish little smile.

"The simplest spells make the best table manners, I find. Don't you?"

Tersept Stornbridge had been fighting to find the right words to say during these last few moments; dismay, rage, and wincing fear racing across his face in clashing and rebounding succession. His champion, however, was a far more direct man.

"Magic!" Pheldane roared, and sprang to his feet, hands streaking to the hilts of several knives as he looked past Blackgult at Lady Talasorn.

The Golden Griffon vaulted the table, hands flashing out to catch Pheldane's wrists. The bull-necked Tersept's Champion was twice as large and half as old-but the graying baron held him easily, even when Pheldane roared in fury and wrenched toward freedom as hard and as suddenly as he could… and those blades stayed unthrown.

The lornsar lifted his hand in a sudden gesture, and the empty balconies filled with bowmen-but the Dwaer sang, and the archers promptly slumped into slumber, arrows and bows clattering down.

Pheldane snarled and brought a knee as broad as a tree trunk brutally up into Blackgult's crotch-only to scream in pain as the barbs on the Griffon's codpiece pierced his knee.

The champion fell back into his chair, sobbing. Blackgult kept firm hold of Pheldane's wrists and stayed on his feet. He let glowered slowly around the table and at each of the uncertainly hovering chamber knaves beyond it, and in a gentle voice that promised doom, if doom was provoked, announced, "I'm still seeking to make friends in Stornbridge, rather than fill graves. I hope you'll all work toward the same ends." He looked longest at Lornsar Ryethrel, before silently sitting down again.

The captain-of-guards was purple and trembling with rage, but Tshamarra's spell kept the sharp, slender needle of steel at Ryethrel's throat, and he said nothing.

Lord Stornbridge found words at last. "Lords and Ladies all," he began, favoring the table with another sickly smile, "I find Overduke Blackgult's suggestion to be a most sensible one, and-despite the unpleasantness that marred the arrival of Aglirta's overdukes in Stornbridge-believe that no tersept nor baron in all the Vale feels a sense of loyalty as sharp and bright as I do. I look upon the reign of King Castlecloaks as a new beginning, a new chance for our fair realm! To have a king who's not asleep for centuries is a great thing in itself!"

He tried a laugh that fell unappreciated into silence, and quickly faded-but almost as swiftly caught up his own enthusiasm and went on. "Yet I'm most heartened by the news you bring, esteemed Overdukes! To have a King who desires to know what we think-even unto blacksmiths and mushroom-pickers! Such wisdom, such a chance for a bright future! I-"

The tersept's endiusiasm faltered for a moment as he caught sight of Craer eyeing his platter dubiously and exchanging a look with Embra, and her swift unleashing of Dwaer-magic on the food, but again Stornbridge caught himself up into a beaming smile, and gabbled, "I find myself quite excited at the prospect of new ideas, a closely guiding hand at work in the realm making the roads safe and settling the many petty disputes that divide one town from the next, and family from family-not that you'll find any of that sort of thing here in Stornbridge, mind you! Ah, no, but I welcome you, brave Overdukes, and hope you'll take a good look around, and talk to many folk, to see the true quality of my stewardship!"

The tersept faltered again, and his undoing was more serious this time. Hawkril and Tshamarra were both visibly struggling to restrain mirth- though Stornbridge had no way of knowing that it was not because of his ridiculous words, but due to the reactions to them of Coinmaster Eirevaur (droll, eye-rolling impassivity) and Seneschal Urbrindur (openmouDied disbelief, broken by silent winces of disgust).

Stornbridge visibly weighed the consequences of reacting with anger to the two miscreant guests, and finally asked, in a strained voice that held mingled coldness, stiffness, and diffidence, "Is there, ah, some problem with my sentiments I should know about? Or some affliction or condition befalling you, perhaps?"

"Horns of the Lady," Undercook Maelree whispered, from her hard-won perch at a high gallery window, "but this is better than a six-bard show!"

Mistress of the Pantry Klaedra chuckled, and then nudged Maelree. "Ssshh. Musn't miss a word!"

They grinned at each other and leaned toward the sill, made bolder by all the tumult below.

"Magic would be the problem," Embra told the tersept briskly. "Spying-spells have just reached into this room!"

"Wha-? But who? Why? Stornbridge seemed genuinely astonished.

"To hear what we decide, obviously," Craer replied, in tones that unmistakably added the words "you idiot" to the end of his sentence.

Tshamarra and Blackgult both shot puzzled looks at Embra. "Able to pierce my shielding and elude your probings for the same reason," she told them tersely. "A reaching not directly to us, but rather to observe through the eyes and ears of someone in this room… the servant standing behind Coinmaster Eirevaur."

Craer promptly vaulted from his seat up onto the table, touching down once amid the platters, and sprang from it at the chamber knave. Servants ran forward to meet and stop him-all but the one he was seeking, who whirled around and fled through an archway. The procurer sprinted in hot pursuit.

"Be careful, Craer!" Tshamarra called, rising.

With a triumphant snarl, Lornsar Ryethrel struck aside the hovering blade at his throat and clawed at the hilt of his sword, eyes fairly flaming as he glared across the table at Blackgult.

The Golden Griffon never moved. The flying needle, however, did-and Lornsar Ryethrel found himself staring at its point, perhaps an inch away from his left eyeball.

"Unless you'd prefer to lose your right eye first?" Tshamarra Talasorn inquired sweetly.

The lornsar let go of his sword and sank back down into his chair in careful silence, the hovering blade moving smoothly with him.

"I see Champion Pheldane has almost recovered-so long as he sits still and puts no weight on his leg," Embra said, every inch the noble hostess. "Perhaps he could reflect on the ease with which I could enspell him to endlessly enjoy the sensations he felt at the moment when he injured his knee… and so remain quiet."

"Graul you, you bitch\" Pheldane snarled. "You and all your bebolten spells!" He reached furiously for his goblet-but the movement was sudden enough to send fresh agonies shooting up his leg. He hunched over, seedling and whimpering, sweat dripping from his contorted face.

"Alternatively," the Lady Silvertree announced, "I could deaden your pain, Champion, though the actual injury would remain. Shall I?"

"Sargh upon you, woman! Sargh right in your grinning face!" Pheldane spat. Without warning or any change of expression Blackgult swung his arm in a great roundhouse blow that smashed into the warrior's face, leaving him reeling. His body promptly twisted and jumped in spellspun pain.

The lornsar and chamber knaves tensed as one, but Seneschal Urbrindur snapped, "Steady! He more than deserved that. Peace be upon this table!"

The Lady of Jewels gave Urbrindur a warm and gracious smile. "My thanks, Seneschal. 'Tis such a pleasure to hear sense spoken among all this fury and bluster. I, too, would fain enjoy a civilized meal among men who reason and debate to wise ends, rather than snarling and showing teeth like dogs warring over a bone."

The Tersept of Stornbridge laughed again. It sounded no more genuine-and was no better received-than his previous efforts at mirth, but he soldiered on into converse once more, determined to salvage something from this disaster of a day. "Why, let us forthwith debate matters of Aglirta, then! As tersept, for example, I feel a constant shortage of coins constraining me from hiring and equipping men enough to patrol the Storn lands as diligently as I would wish. Were the reinstituted crown taxes lower, I could hire more men, and keep the King's law better. Fewer brigands would steal and fewer outlander merchants avoid paying the taxes they should. The royal coffers would be as full, whilst all benefited from greater peace and justice."

Embra nodded. "Every baron and tersept feels so, and most let us know it. Yet we've only to look back over these last ten seasons to know what happens when every ruler, large and small, is free to buy armsmen. War over every little dispute and disagreement-with crops ruined, much blood spilt, trade trammeled, no peace and safety on the roads, no justice for all, and in the end death for almost every baron and tersept, no matter how respected or wise they might be. Remember the Crow of Cardassa."

Lord Stornbridge signaled for his goblet to be refilled. "But Lady, we have a king now; surely such bloody days are behind us! Could-"

"We had a king then,'" the Lady Silvertree reminded him. "My point stands. Whoever sits the River Throne looks up and down the Vale and sees many keeps-such as this one-full of cortahars and armaragors, each with its own ruler commanding their blades thus and so. If we give tax relief to those who hire more swords, what end can there be but more war? Lord Stornbridge, do you hire more cooks and not eat?"

The tersept looked as if he wanted to snarl something angry for a moment, and then his face fell back into anxious uncertainty. "I-I-Lady, you must realize I meant no dispute with the King's policy. I merely-"

"Of course." Embra lifted her untouched goblet to him. "I quite understand. I was merely demonstrating how Flowfoam must regard matters from other sides, when they can see the desires of all. 'Tis when we cannot hear, and thus not know, of local disputes or the wants and needs of Vale folk that we can't hope to make the right decrees."

"So you're saying you overdukes make decisions for the King, is that it?" Those harsh words belonged to Seneschal Urbrindur. "Or do you mean a little cabal of the wizards you've been gathering to Flowfoam so diligently these last few months? Or senior barons, like you and Blackgult here?"

"My, my," the Golden Griffon told the platter in front of him, "but I do so enjoy civilized discussions. Seneschal, I find your ignorance amusing. You seem to truly believe that senior barons-or a handful of wizards, for that matter-could actually agree on anything!"

Unexpectedly, the Coinmaster chuckled. After a moment of staring at him in startlement, Tersept Stornbridge joined in. Hawkril nodded approvingly, and noticed as he did so that smiles flickered across the faces of several chamber knaves.

The seneschal didn't bother to look annoyed. He merely waited for the ripple of mirth to the and said, "Yet we have peace-of sorts-in Aglirta right now because of such agreement, however reached. We also know King Raulin Castlecloaks is the son of a bard, a young lad of no lands nor coins, without influence or armsmen to his name to claim anything… least of all the River Throne. We also know that some folk reached agreement to crown him-or at least not to sword him down if he seized the crown for himself and proclaimed himself King-and that some folk, visibly including you overdukes, support him on that throne, or he'd not still be there. Why choose a boy? Might it be because he's easily biddable, so you can shape Aglirta as you see fit?"

Embra opened her mouth to speak, looking less than pleased, but Blackgult quelled her with a lifted finger and replied calmly, "That's indeed the most obvious explanation, soon occurring to anyone who considers such things. Had you been in the Throne Chamber at the right times, to see and hear for yourself, however, you'd know that I could easily have passed from regent to King-and was both urged and expected to do so, by some- and that Hawkril, here, was also asked to take the crown."

The seneschal spread his hands. "Yet we only have your word for that, my lord. We were not there-nor were the majority of rulers and officers, up and down the Vale. Most barons and tersepts, in fact, were appointed by Kelgrael or by you as regent or by King Castlecloaks, and so owe lands, coins, and power to Flowfoam, with very recent reminders of how suddenly and fatally such gifts can be taken away. Again, we bow the more easily to your bidding… those who would not are those now dead."

Blackgult smiled. "So you'd have us change the way of the world, Urbrindur? Tell the Three how to order things, differently than they've done these past dozen centuries, at least?"

"The Serpent-priests tried to do just that," Coinmaster Eirevaur said unexpectedly. "Though they failed as completely and as spectacularly as did Bloodblade or any baron."

The Golden Griffon nodded. "Mountainsides grow no softer if you scream at them-or hurl yourself against them a score of times or more. I've learned just one thing down the years about trying to make large changes in Darsar around us: All such attempts end up costing the lives of many."

Lornsar Ryethrel regarded him sourly across the table. "So what're you saying to us, Overduke Blackgult? That all Aglirta should accept one large change, the ascension of the boy king, and another: his new way of doing things… because any third large change would bring much bloodshed? That seems to me no more nor less than the sort of menace that barons have always spoken to us: I can do what I like, because I have the swords to back me, but if you dare try anything, you'll be the irresponsible butcher who brings ruin to all Aglirta. I'm not defying King Castlecloaks, nor belittling your mission or authority… I'm merely pointing out that to many of us, such pretty talk seems to veil the same old spiked gauntlet."

Blackgult smiled. "So it does, Ryethrel. So it does. In the end, for all our high-minded schemes, it always comes down to who can whelm the greatest force, does it not? I wish things were otherwise, but they're not." He glanced at the hunched-over Tersept's Champion. "Are they, Pheldane?"

"Graul you like a blinded boar, Blackgult," the champion gasped, not looking up. "Graul you and roast you in your own armor, you whoreson wolf!"

Blackgult smiled. "My fond love for you grows greater too, Pheldane."

"Lord Blackgult!" The Tersept of Stornbridge's voice was almost a whine, his pleading open. "Lady Silvertree! Harsh words and rough handling have you entertained since arriving here in fair Stornbridge, and I humbly beg your pardon for that when there can be no real pardon… But tell me: Do you deem us enemies of the crown for speaking with candor? Are we doomed, merely for our honesty?"

"No, Tersept, you are not," Embra told him quietly. "We value the truth, and knowing what folk really feel, over all the empty fawning and false smiles the Vale can give us. Do you think your views surprise us?"

Stombridge regarded her silently, and then slowly shook his head. The Lady of Jewels gave him a faint smile-and then, as a flicker of movement from above caught her eye, she called on the Dwaer, the air sang and shimmered, and the few bowmen on the balconies who'd begun to stealthily reach for blades or quivers fell back to sleep again, arms dangling.

With one spell barely cast, Embra called on her Stone for another, bringing another probing spell down on platters all over the table. Faint sparkling radiances winked and crawled across the food. She put one ladylike finger into some nearby gravy, eyes narrowed, and then carefully licked it and turned her magic on herself.

"What is it?" Lord Stombridge asked, as if he could not very well guess what she was doing. "What's wrong, Lady Overduke?"

"Many things, Lord," Embra told him, lifting grave eyes to his as she put another gravy-coated finger in her mouth. "Wherefore none of us can be too careful." Sucking her finger clean, she added approvingly, "Your kitchens are good. My thanks."

"Yesss," Undercook Maelree said fiercely, cramming a knuckle into her mouth to quell the shriek of delight she felt rising within her. "She's done it! 'Tis in her!"

"Quiet, now," the Mistress of the Pantry murmured beside her-but it was a gloating murmur. "We mustn't warn our overduchal heroes they've ingested the plague until they've all tasted it."

The Undercook nodded, and drew back a little from the high gallery window. In the shadows the two women exchanged soft, menacing smiles. "A good day for the Serpent," Maelree breaDied, her fingers digging into Klaedra's shoulders with excited, bruising force.

The Mistress of the Pantry did not tear free of the painful grip and strike Maelree across the face for daring to touch her person-and that in itself was a measure of how delighted she was.