The Dragon's Doom

6

Madness and a Timely Flagon

Though I do what lovely ladies say, this will get me killed some day,' " Craer Delnbone sang softly and mockingly as he plunged down an unfamiliar passage, the groans of the guard he'd just kicked in the crotch fading behind him.

Bebolt that overenthusiastic cortahar, anyway! He'd delayed Craer just long enough to let the chamber knave he was chasing whirl into this side passage, and through one of these nigh-dozen doors. At least the fool had slammed it, marking his trail that much. Graul and bebolt all!

"Now, if I was a foolishly avid and attentive guard, I'd wait about here…" Craer murmured, springing high to catch hold of an old torch-bracket as he came to a corner. He grasped it for just the instant he needed to swing himself high and hard-

Yes! A blade slashed at where his face and throat should have been, the cortahar behind it snarling in cruel exultation. That snarl became a growl of surprise as Craer flashed past overhead, kicked off the far wall, and flung himself back in a twisting turn that brought his hand down hard on the guard's neck.

The cortahar grunted in pain-a grunt that rose into a whistle of alarm as Craer's waxed cord slapped across his throat. The procurer caught the garotte's far end, deftly pulled and jerked-and the gurgling, strangling guard's head was driven into the passage wall.

The man reeled, shaking his head and clawing at the air rather dazedly, so Craer bounced as he landed, bounding high to slam the cortahar's head into the wall once more.

This time the guard only managed to pull his face off the stone far enough to blink-before he went down in a limp, untidy heap.

"No, don't thank me," Craer told the senseless cortahar, retrieving his garotte. 'Just enjoy your slumber. The Three know if you deserve it. Me, I just know what I deserve."

He ran on, sprinting hard but almost soundlessly in his soft leather boots. Their pointed toes were hard and sharp-sporting little crescentiform knife blades of which Craer, their maker, was quite proud-but the soles were as soft and supple as a high lady's boudoir slippers.

Behind any of these doors, Three take him, the chamber knave could be hiding. Well, a procurer's life wasn't for the peaceloving…

Craer snatched at the latch of the first door, but it wouldn't budge. He shook it, whirling away without pause to another door a pace farther on and across the passage. The first door yielded not a whit, and no sound of alarm came from beyond it-but the second door opened.

Dust, darkness, and linens: a closet. Craer snapped his garotte into the gloom like a whip, encountering nothing. The moment he could see it was empty of cowering chamber knaves, he rebounded across the passage again to the third door.

This one crashed open to reveal three startled needle-wielding maids bent over a sewing frame. They screamed in unison, so Craer gave them a rakish grin, slammed the door on them, and sprang to the fourth door.

It was bolted, and shuddered under his attack. From behind it came a feminine gasp of alarm and a low, furious man's voice: "Notjyrf, Thalas! You promised this room until candletrimming, graul you!"

Craer grinned and flung himself at the fifth door. It opened-and he hurled himself to the floor as something fanged and hissing spun right at him!

His plunge took him to the very toes of his attacker, so he snapped his garotte around handy ankles, jerked, and then shoved.

The man cursed, flailed his arms for balance, and caught at someone else to keep from falling. By then Craer was up the man's legs and stabbing hard with one of his handy knives.

The Serpent-priest shrieked and snatched out his own dagger-only to really scream and come to a shuddering, quivering halt, as Craer's knife transfixed his other hand. The dagger clattered to the floor.

Craer twisted his blade, sending the priest to his knees in a sobbing howl. With his free hand the procurer grabbed the throat of the other man: the chamber knave he'd been chasing.

"Is this the man who cast the spell on you?" Craer hissed, shaking his knife so the priest's bleeding hand was dragged cruelly through the air, trailing its weeping owner. "Aye?"

"Y-yes," the servant choked, trying to shrink back through a wall to get away from the procurer… and failing miserably.

"You know him?" Craer snapped, his hand tightening.

"N-no, Lord, truly! H-he only arrived… castle… two days ago. I don't even know his name!"

Craer shoved the chamber knave, sending the man stumbling in search of balance. The procurer used that time to pluck up the priest's fallen dagger-a wavy blade with an open-jawed fanged serpent-pommel-and menace the servant with it, to make sure the man had no weapon and no chance to draw it if he did.

The knave shrank back, paling. "N-no! Mercy! 'Tis poisoned!"

Craer shook his own knife to keep the pain-wracked priest helpless, and held the snake-dagger up to the light. A stain that should not have been there-a deep greenish-purple distincdy different from blood, fresh or old-covered its keen point.

Craer thrust it at the chamber knave. As the servant screamed and tried to claw his way up the wall away from it, Craer reversed it and brought the rearing serpent-head down hard on a cringing skull. The servant collapsed without a sound, blood trickling from his nose.

Craer nodded approvingly-and then turned and drove the poisoned blade hilt-deep into the belly of its owner, point-first this time.

The Serpent-priest didn't even have time to scream ere he pitched forward on his face and bade farewell to all pain, forever…

"Well, Craer, you're the best," the procurer exclaimed-and then mockingly replied to himself: "Why, thank you. I hope they haven't eaten everything that's free of poison before I get back."

Jerking his knife free, he strode back the way he'd come, pausing only to rap on a door and growl, "Thalas. Come out, or by the Three, I'm coming in!"

"Thalas, you bastard!. You black-pizzled, lice-dripping, misbegotten son of a she-boar!" came the muffled but frantic reply, amid wordless feminine wails of alarm.

Craer grinned and set off down the passage before anyone could emerge. "Yes," he told himself fondly, "this is certainly going to get me killed some day. But not this day."

He paused a swift step later, thinking of the first guard, who must have recovered by now. "I hope."

In a palatial chamber of high dark bookshelves, blood-red walls, and many gilded wyvern-head carvings, a black-bearded man sat alone at feast.

The wine in his golden goblet was a shade darker than his crimson robes-and much darker than the flames of hot anger in his eyes.

The servants knew better than to tarry once they'd set his steaming platter before Multhas Bowdragon; the "Blackheart" (a name known across Arlund, though never uttered in its unwilling owner's hearing) possessed both a hot temper and a cruel, violent streak.

Multhas dined alone by choice, for it was his practice as he lingered over favorite dishes to gaze into saying-crystals and see what was unfolding across Asmarand. Their shifting glows lit a sharp-nosed, thin, and handsome face that might have belonged to a king or a high priest, if not to a mighty wizard-but to no softer man.

Multhas the Blackheart often brooded over real and imagined slights that both men and gods sent his way. He was brooding now. Why was his elder brother Dolmur the more powerful? Dolmur the quiet, who wasted so much time on fripperies like flowers and kindnesses and the cares of others. How was it that such a one commanded so much more respect than his brothers without ever resorting to open threats?

Oh, men respected Multhas Bowdragon well enough. They just all seemed to want to do it without ever meeting his eyes or dealing as friends or even coming within his sight if they didn't absolutely have to. They treated him with careful, wary courtesy, no trace of love-yet not the abject, terror-driven haste a mighty wizard should command by his very presence, either.

He must study men of power more closely. What they said, their small mannerisms, their stride, garb, and manners of dealing. What good is being a great wizard if you must blast men to have them obey you? Other mages need only smile or frown, and men leaped to do things unbidden, to keep them pleased or make them satisfied.

"That's the secret of the Three I must learn," Multhas muttered, looking up at the grimoires he kept closest. Old, thick spellbooks penned by the most powerful archwizards of long ago: Coraumaunth, and Meljrune, and-

"The Three reveal their secrets in their own good time, Multhas. Is hunting them in old tomes your wisest course?"

Multhas Bowdragon whirled around, almost upsetting his platter. "Who dares-?"

An intruder clad like a traveling mage stood at the far end of the room, facing him. Black hair, a soft and wise smile-and one hand hidden from view in a slit-pocket of wizardry robes.

Unfamiliar, yes, but Multhas had seen him before… through a scrying-sphere. Yes! Years ago, when he still dared to look upon Aglirta, before-

"My name," the man said pleasantly, "is Ingryl Ambelter. I come in peace, to make an offer I trust you'll find both profitable… and enjoyable."

Fear struck a chill deep in the Blackheart Bowdragon. It was only by the strongest of trembling efforts that he kept from flinching, or showing terror on his face.

Yet his unbidden guest smirked, as if every racing thought Multhas wrestled with was shouted aloud. Oh, he knew of Ingryl Ambelter, darkest of Silvertree's Dark Three, and quailed-and Ambelter knew it.

Multhas Bowdragon shook, willing mounting rage to overmaster his fear. How had Ambelter reached this innermost spellgirt chamber, passing wards without contest? What awesome power-?

The man had proclaimed himself Spellmaster of Silvertree-of All Aglirta, now, if Sirl gossip heard through the crystals could be believed-and some said he'd killed Baron Silvertree, the Risen King, and even the Great Serpent!

Certainly he'd butchered dozens of Sirl mages, decades back, sending slaying-spells by night… stealing through their wards unchecked, just like…

The Blackheart drew a deep breath. It might, after all, be his last.

"Ambelter," he echoed, keeping his voice steady, slow, and without any hint of weakness-or welcome. "I've heard that name before. Faerod Silvertree's mages… you were reckoned the most powerful of those 'Dark Three.' "

His visitor smiled. "Indeed, and rightly so." Ambelter waved his visible-and empty-hand at the splendors around him. "Your wards are among the finest I've seen, and yet…" He smiled again, and let silence fall between them.

Multhas let his scrying-spheres fade to dark quiescence, not hurrying to say anything that would further reveal his fears. With a thought he activated wands hidden here and there in carvings around the room. If it came to battle between them…

"Evidently not fine enough," he replied in dry tones, assuming a relaxed pose that just happened to cover the ring on his left hand with the fingers of his right, so the faint glow of its awakening to hurl fires was concealed. "You mentioned an offer…?"

"I propose alliance toward a specific end. This must needs involve some measure of trust between us. Hence this meeting, eyes to eyes, for both of us to see if trust is possible… or not."

Multhas Bowdragon regarded his visitor expressionlessly. "Unfold your offer."

"For years Aglirta has been where barons brawl, each kinging it over his few farms and forests and cow pastures. The Vale feeds great Sirlptar, but is in truth no kingdom at all-a place of battle madness rightly called the King-less Land. Yet the true rulers of Aglirta have always been wizards. Wizards who warred with each other, using barons as willfully as barons use their lowliest cortahars. I was Spellmaster of Silvertree, and even that greatest baron of all bowed to my will-and never knew he was doing so."

"And so?"

"And so I know the true measure of Aglirta's might. If ever it stood united under a strong king, a real king, Arlund would not be safe, nor Sirlptar, nor any proud land of Asmarand; Aglirta could conquer all. Those who squabble in the Vale could come for you and all Bowdragons on the morrow, if someone did but unite and lead them."

"The worlds of 'if' are countless, but even our most daring sea captains rarely reach them," Multhas responded. "I'm not afraid of cortahars, or full-mantled armaragors, or even howling hosts of hireswords. A few spells, and-" He made a dismissive gesture.

Ingryl Ambelter smiled. "Indeed. However, there's far more to Aglirta than swords-there's magic. The ruins of a dozen cities of sorcery lie beneath the green fields and wildwood tree roots of Silverflow Vale, and in family crypts, roadside hedges, and many abandoned palaces and high houses. Much magic has been carried off down the years, of course, but far more lies forgotten. Magic enough to make those who wield it archwizards greater than any Darsar has yet known. Fool-headed farmers turn over spellswords when they plow, and barons toss aside everything not encrusted with jewels."

Multhas Bowdragon swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "And having stepped through my wards as if they were less than window curtains, you need my aid in this matter… how?"

Ambelter took a step forward-moving in utter silence, Bowdragon noted-and said eagerly, "That's just it, Multhas! Alone, I can make myself the tyrant king Sirl folk would have to fear-and the rest of Asmarand would come to fear, once Sirlptar fell. This I can do already, without you or anyone. Yet I want more. Much more."

He took another step forward, and Multhas Bowdragon called up the powers of his fire-ring. This could all be but a ruse, for Ambelter to get close…

The Spellmaster smiled. "Calm yourself, Bowdragon, and quell what you're planning to hurl at me. Believe me, I have means to prevent it." He waved his empty hand as if delivering a speech to an assembly, and urged, "Hear me! I want allies, and I need friends. Friends to join me in founding a new Aglirta: a kingdom of wizards!"

The master of Bowdragon Towers knew his eyes were narrowing, even as his heart started to pound with excitement. "You want me to be one of your loyal subjects?"

"No! I see a council of mages, a high table of equals, with apprentices serving beneath us and commoners under all. A land as strong and clean and peaceful as we can make it, so Aglirtans are happy and wealthy, earning us coins enough to live like kings and pursue ever stronger magics, making new books of sorcery to enrich all. What say you, Bowdragon?"

"A compelling vision," Multhas admitted, nodding. "Yet I still don't see why you need me-or how I can be sure you aren't just seeking my death, and my paltry magics to add to your own."

Ambelter smiled again. "I've never yet thought that any mage can be talked to death. If I wanted you dead, a spell to smash Bowdragon Towers would have come without warning, and you'd never even have known who sent it. Much magic binds together walls and furniture around you, Multhas-and such magic can be twisted or shattered at will, by those few who know how. But I don't need your death. I need you alive, as a colleague I can respect and talk to, and work with. As a friend."

He held out his empty hand in the soothing gesture many women make when they dare not touch the one they want to comfort. "I know this is both sudden and unsettling. You'll want time to think, to consider all sides. I won't press you for any pledge or agreement this day… But I do believe that once you consider all the implications of this dream of mine, you'll very much want to be a part of it. Just think: to be free of swaggering sword-swingers and owing your backside to sly-tongued merchants at last!"

"I already enjoy complete freedom in such matters, thank you," Multhas Bowdragon answered rather stiffly.

The Spellmaster shook his head. "Only through the work of your brother Dolmur, whom you thus feel the same indebtedness to-and who can compel you as surely as could a tyrant king on your doorstep, or a merchant you owed every stone of Bowdragon Towers to!"

"I believe," Multhas Bowdragon snarled, "that this interview is at an end."

The Spellmaster held up a hand. "Please, Multhas, take no hasty offense. I meant not to anger you, but merely to honestly refute-and how often do you hear another mage speak such plain truth to you, hmm? Is that alone not a rarity worth having more of?"

The master of Bowdragon Towers glowered, then nodded reluctandy. "You speak rightly there. Yet I still know not what you desire of me. Has Aglirta not taken leave of its senses enough to enthrone a boy as King? Use your spells to rule him, and you have your kingdom with no help from me!"

His visitor nodded. "I could-but would then be plunged into a struggle that would lay waste to Aglirta even as I won it. Have you not wondered how this unknown lad came to be King? He's backed by the senior barons, Blackgult and Silvertree, and the rest of the self-styled overdukes… and they're in league with the most powerful wizards left in Aglirta."

Multhas waved at his crystals. "Oh? I've spent some time scrying the Vale from afar, and have failed to notice any mages of note left there. In Sirlptar, yes, but Aglirta?"

Ambelter smiled again. "I trust you've heard of the Master of Bats?"

"Yes, but he's not Aglirtan, nor even in the Vale."

"Oh? Have you farscryed him lately?"

The Blackheart glared at his visitor, and then snapped, "So perhaps he's in league with this cabal of Flowfoam nobles-what then? Surely you can smite down one wizard, however notorious!"

"Ah, but there are many more. I can defeat them, yes, but once I work openly, they'll be at me like a pack of hungry wolves, watching day and night, and the long struggle will begin. The shrewdest attacks come from a surprise source-such as yourself. Ton could smite down my foes, seize their magics for yourself, and be gone again before the rest even knew a death had taken place, let alone who did the deed."

"So who are these 'many more'? Are they all skilled enough to hide themselves from me, all these months?" Multhas waved at the scrying-spheres, letting the ready fire of his ring show.

Ingryl Ambelter smirked at it, then let his face grow very serious as he met the angry gaze of his unwilling host. "Not all Lords of the Serpent perished when the Great Serpent fell. Surely a mage of accomplishment like yourself is aware that the Serpent is no god like the Three, but an archwiz-ard commanding a great web of spells. His priests are mages-some like you and me, but most little better than the hedge-wizards of yore, who can be found in a threadbare and useless carpet over most of Asmarand, muttering mysteries from every back lane. That web of magic, however, welds them

into a formidable army-a host that knows and watches me, but leaves its backside unguarded against you and others it knows not!"

"And how," Multhas Bowdragon asked very quiedy, discovering to his surprise that he was sweating so freely that a droplet was about to fall from his nose, "do I know they aren't watching you right now, listening to every word that passes between us, and marking me as a foe to be struck down before my platter here has quite cooled?"

"Oh," the Spellmaster told him softly, "you need have no fear of that." Slowly and casually he drew forth the hand he'd kept hidden in his robes, and held it up as though faintly surprised at what rested in its palm: a small, mottled brown-and-white stone.

"I believe," he remarked, "you know what this is without my having to tell you-or demonstrate, by, say, snuffing out all the wands you've awakened around me, that little bauble on your finger, and every last Bowdragon enchantment at work in Arlund."

"A-a Dwaer-Stone?"

Ingryl Ambelter smiled broadly. "Indeed, and more. 'Tis very dangerous for any lone mage to carry more than one Dwaerindim… but I know where there are others. One could well soon be yours."

He took another step forward. "So you can surely see, friend Multhas, that I can blast you to ashes at will-and every other mage, baron, or plow farmer in all Darsar, too. I've had this Stone for years, and have hurled down barons and archwizards alike with it. I could have done that to you and all the Bowdragons years ago. But that's not what I want, and not why I came here."

He stepped back as a haze of tiny stars suddenly encircled the Stone in his hand. "I want allies. More than that: I want friends. Think about that, Multhas. I'll come calling again… and although I give you my word that refusing me will be a completely safe thing for you to do, I hope you'll join with me. Now fare you well. 'Twould be churlish of me to let the last of your feast grow cold."

And the man holding the Dwaer seemed to become a drifting, fading figure of smoke-a figure that was gone before Multhas could think of something to say. He stared at where it had been, and then cast a hasty spell to make sure Ambelter wasn't tarrying, invisible.

When that magic told him he was indeed alone in his most private chamber-and, what's more, had been alone therein since he last invoked it, right after sending out the servants who'd brought his feast-Multhas Bowdragon at last found the right word to shout: "Dolmur!"

His older brother infuriated and unsettled him. In Dolmur's presence, Multhas always felt like a young and irresponsible child-a child being silently judged, by one full of pity who always found him wanting-and reached that finding with a complete lack of surprise.

Yet, a Dwaer! A mage of Aglirta stepping through his wards at will! A war of mages and a realm of wizards!

Temptation, very great temptation. Anger, of course-so much anger that his hands trembled as he shut down wands and fire-ring and snatched up his most powerful rod of magics-but also fear.

Yes, bebolt it, he was afraid. Multhas Bowdragon whirled out of his spellgirt chamber like an angry black tempest, forgetting the last of his feast completely in his haste to consult with Dolmur.

A last few wisps of steam rose from the platter, but there was no one left in that chamber to see them.

They were, however, observed by someone not in the room. Someone who almost squealed with excitement as she wove spells in eager haste, barely able to breathe over the racing of her own heart. By linking three of her uncle's scrying-crystals in her ghostwatch-spell, its reach through his wards had been subtle enough to pass undetected these last two seasons-and why not? After all, Multhas the Roaring-Bearded Storm wanted to be able to look through his wards with them himself-and those same crystals could serve as anchors to a tracer-spell.

If this Ambelter revisited Uncle Multhas in the same room-and why not? Multhas spent hardly a moment anywhere else, these days-she could, with luck, magically follow him when he departed.

Uncle Multhas was a greedy, blustering fool. His sneering superiority blinded him to his own weaknesses as a wizard, and to the carelessness that would always keep him weak. Uncle Dolmur would never join anything that he could not control, and her own father was as gentle as a blubbering chambermaid, weaker in his sorcery even than Multhas.

No, if the Spellmaster of Aglirta wanted a real ally to win his kingdom-even, perhaps, a consort? he was not that old and ugly, after all-he should look past the elder Bowdragons, and see the most capable of the younger ones.

Herself. Maelra Bowdragon, aquiver with excitement now as her last deft spell fell into place and completed the subtle web that should trace Ingryl Ambelter, if he came again.

She drew in a shuddering breath, ran slender hands down over her hips to wipe them dry, and then hugged herself in sheer excitement. This might be the road opening before her at last. The road to power.

"And so," she whispered to her mirror, "there came the day at last when all Darsar knew-and feared-the name of Maelra."

The smile her mirror gave back to her then was truly frightening.

"Is there really much chance of Aglirta seeing the rise of another Bloodblade?" Lord Stornbridge asked, over the clatter of cutlery and the sounds of eager chewing. The boar was good, if he said so himself. It had a special something… yes, Maelree had outdone herself. Klaedra left all the roasts to Maelree for good reason. Very good reason.

The Tersept of Stornbridge sat back, smothering a contented belch, to hear what reply these overdukes might give. They were as strange as Vale talk claimed, to be sure.

Thank the Three for that. If he'd ever dared to treat old Faerod Silvertree-or even this Blackgult, in the old days-as he'd done these folk this day, he'd be dead now, or screaming his slow, agonized way toward a death he'd be longing for. Stornbridge shuddered and put such thoughts from his mind as the Lady Silvertree told him quietly, "So long as Serpent-priests walk Darsar, and cast ambitious eyes on the Vale, they could set another Bloodblade on the bloody road of swords that ends at Flowfoam. 'Tis the task of us all to stop that from befalling."

All of the Storn men listened to her in better humor than they had just a few breaths ago. Good food does that to men-and so does soothing magic of the sort Embra had cast upon Pheldane. No one would have called the Champion or the lornsar friendly toward their visitors, but they'd now found it in themselves to be civil.

Hawkril visibly brightened as a lithe, familiar figure strolled back into the room via the archway he'd recently raced out through. Craer Delnbone held a decanter in his hands, and wore a jaunty smile on his face. "Sorry I've been absent this long," he told the table. "The best vintages take some time to find, in cellars so extensive." He inclined his head politely to Stornbridge. "My compliments, my lord. Refinement of palate I of course expected of you, but I'd no idea your tastes ran so deep."

The tersept, who knew very well that his wine cellar consisted of a disused pantry stacked untidily with a dozen or so kegs of whatever wine was cheapest, nodded with a somewhat bewildered smile. The little thief had obviously plucked the decanter off the serving cart just inside that archway, but… what was he getting at?

"You should try some," Craer urged his friends, setting the decanter down on the table before them. "Bites like a serpent, it does."

Blackgult regarded the ceiling for the briefest of moments, as both Embra and Tshamarra rolled their eyes. "Subtle, Craer, very subt;e," the Lady Silvertree murmured.

Craer shrugged merrily, gave the lornsar a cheery smile as he took his seat, and asked, "What did I miss? Barbed threats? Little gems of glowering menace? Or just a little tongue-fencing?"

Lornsar Ryethrel regarded his newly returned table companion sourly. "A little peace and quiet. My lord."

Hawkril snorted with laughter, and Tshamarra smirked at her platter and said, "He's got you there, Longfingers!"

Craer regarded her haughtily. "That'll be 'Lord Longfingers,' if you don't mind."

"Would it be impolite of me to inquire, as seneschal of this castle, if the Lord Stombridge is, ah, short one chamber knave at this time?" Urbrindur asked.

Craer gave him a bright smile. "No, and no. He has a bit of a headache, and is sleeping it off-comfortably, I trust. There's another man lying beside him who is-or rather was-a. priest of the Serpent. A man who arrived here but two days ago, I understand. He's dead now, and whoever pulls his own knife out of him had best beware poison on its blade. Oh, yes, two of your cortahars need some weapons practice, and someone named Thalas is being far too mercenary in his rental of certain rooms."

"I beg your pardon?" Seneschal Urbrindur asked, in the heavy tones affected by those so scandalized that they're really doing nothing of the kind.

However, on the other side of the uncertainly smiling tersept, Coinmaster Eirevaur smiled, nodded, made a note, and murmured, "Thalas again. Thank you, Lord Delnbone."

Craer gave him a wink, and then addressed the seneschal directly. "No, I'm afraid not."

Urbrindur gave him a baffled but nonetheless disapproving look. "You're afraid, my lord?"

The procurer took a healthy mouthful of boar and sluiced it down his gullet with a swig from the decanter. "I'm afraid I can't grant the pardon you've so energetically begged for, at this time. Still, the Three work in wondrous ways, Seneschal. Perhaps I shall, sometime soon-if you can overcome this regrettable tendency to judge everyone around you. Take folk as you find them-"

"Aye," Hawkril rumbled, "take them for all they've got, is the usual Longfingers manner."

Craer shot his old friend a look that mingled mock pain and shared mirth, and continued, "-and enjoy life all the more. Some wine, perhaps? A timely flagon comes never amiss." He waved the decanter, but Urbrindur shook his head curtly.

"To continue, my Lord Stornbridge," Embra said patiently, "we consider that what's most important for every noble of Aglirta is to take great care to not follow the dark road of ambition favored by some of their more foolish fellows in the past." She sipped daintily at her wine, and added, "There's no need for anyone to go whelming armies beyond what's needed to patrol his own territory, or to conspire with others up and down the Vale in petty little alliances that in the end will only be manipulated by the Serpent-worshippers or another Bloodblade desiring to snatch the throne."

Blackgult nodded. "If every noble of the Vale kept loyal to the throne, and bought peace with wise decisions, ready swords, fair justice, and vigilant patrols, Aglirta would soon know greatness again, and the peace would bring prosperity to all."

"Your diligence on the road this day may have been misplaced, but it speaks well for your regard for your own people, and for all Aglirta," Embra added. "Though this may surprise you, we are thus far well pleased with you, Tersept of Stornbridge."

The Lord of Stornbridge visibly sat straighter and taller, looking delighted. Craer saluted him with the decanter, and then bounded to his feet and skipped around the table. Chamber knaves started forward uncertainly to intercept him, but the procurer was already refilling the tersept's goblet with the bubbling words, "That's right! Celebrate! A most excellent wine, this. You must tell us more of life here in Stornbridge-the fishing, say, and how the crops are doing, and who stops by to trade in the market, and what trade goods your people never see enough of. Let's stop all this snarling at each other, put our boots up, and talkl"

"I-I hardly know where to begin," the tersept told him, a genuine smile on his face. He raised his goblet, and then said in a rush, "I know: with a good long drink!"

"Exactly!" Craer agreed, sloshing wine into the seneschal's goblet despite Urbrindur's irritated expression.

"Tongue-loosening time, eh?" the lornsar growled. "Well, why not?"

He held out his own goblet to the prancing procurer. " 'Tis not every night we entertain overdukes!"

"Well, thank the Scaled One for that? Undercook Maelree snarled, peering down from the window. "Ryethrel has it right-that's exactly what that little foulness is up to! Get the tersept drunk and listen while he spills all. We've got to do something!"

The Mistress of the Pantry smiled serenely. "Already taken care of, Ree. Josmer got my signal."

The cook peered at her, brightening. "You mean-?"

"I mean there's nothing our proud tersept likes more than baked sugar tart smothered in rubywine sauce, a generous helping of which will very swiftly be set in front of him and the rest. The tersept's only-that bitch is using her magic to check everything put in front of any overduke-will have Josmer's little addition. I give Lord Stornbridge about six yawns before he's facedown in his tart and snoring."

"Klaedra, you're a wonder!"

The Mistress of the Pantry smiled again, smugly this time. "I know. The Serpent-priest said the same thing." She drew open her bodice-and the cook gasped.

Klaedra always wore a black silk ribbon about her throat; from it a number of keys hung on fine cords, riding within her bodice. Maelree knew those keys-but she'd never before seen so many gleaming golden coins as the row of punched and laced-together Carraglan zostarrs that hung down from one cord between Klaedra's full, tanned breasts, disappearing from view beneath her belt. Maelree blinked. She'd heard no telltale clinking, nor seen the rope of riches moving beneath the tight, dark gown the mistress wore… which meant the linked coins must be long enough to pass under that broad black cummerbund, and descend still further. The priest had paid Klaedra a fortune.

She shivered suddenly, wondering how long he'd leave Klaedra alive to spend it.