Elminster Must Die Part 29

At least two of the wizards and highknights crowded into the office stiffened, but most grinned wryly, and young Baerengard even dared to jest, "Well, you did did choose to dwell in Cormyr, sir." choose to dwell in Cormyr, sir."

Starbridge gave the youngling a sour look. When he'd been Baerengard's age, idiots this callow would never have been considered for the mantle of highknight, but these dozen-some filling his office were almost all the highknights the Forest Kingdom had left. Untrustworthy, insolent puppies.

"I will lead an expedition to hunt down Elminster," he declared. "I'll take nigh all of you, plus a few of the more competent wizards of war-those with brains enough not to get themselves killed if they try something so difficult as camping, and who're capable of enough basic civility that we can stomach their company. Those here in this room, for instance. We leave tonight." will lead an expedition to hunt down Elminster," he declared. "I'll take nigh all of you, plus a few of the more competent wizards of war-those with brains enough not to get themselves killed if they try something so difficult as camping, and who're capable of enough basic civility that we can stomach their company. Those here in this room, for instance. We leave tonight."

Several highknights stirred as if they wanted to speak, but only one plunged into dispute with him. Young Narulph, of course.

"I think an expedition is far less than wise-is, in fact, a very bad idea, given that Ganrahast and Vainrence still can't be found. Is it right and prudent that we depart the palace at this time, when the Obarskyrs may need our aid at any moment, with all the n.o.bles of the realm gathering here for the council?"

Highknights had always owned the right to speak bluntly to superiors-even the reigning monarch or regent-without fear of reprisal, and the open debate this fostered had time and again served the realm well, but Starbridge had little time for Narulph's usual "Do nothing is best" stance.

"I'll have none of that," he snarled. "If the roof above our heads fell in and killed us all right now, there are still plenty of wizards of war left to defend Cormyr. Some of them-Arbrace, Belandroon, and Hawksar, to name three-are even almost as competent as they themselves think they are."

The handful of mages present all grinned at that.

"If we're not here to save their precious little behinds for them, again," again," Starbridge added, before Narulph could think of some other idiocy to spout, "perhaps-just perhaps-they'll grow some backbone, and we'll all discover they're good for something besides strutting around muttering darkly about how the realm would fall every tenday or so, but for their oh-so-secret efforts." Starbridge added, before Narulph could think of some other idiocy to spout, "perhaps-just perhaps-they'll grow some backbone, and we'll all discover they're good for something besides strutting around muttering darkly about how the realm would fall every tenday or so, but for their oh-so-secret efforts."

One wizard lost his smile, another snorted back laughter, and the rest winced.

"Anyone else else?" Starbridge barked. "Speak out now, because once we're at work, I'll take a very very dim view of anyone trying to confound the results I'm seeking, or deciding on their own to just dim view of anyone trying to confound the results I'm seeking, or deciding on their own to just change change things a little." things a little."

No one said a word. Not even the sullen-looking Narulph.

"Right," Starbridge said heavily. "Hear then my orders: Everyone is to depart the palace, starting now and leaving by ones and twos. We'll all meet again-before highsun, if you want to stay a highknight-at the Stone Goat paddock marker out on Jester's Green. Mounts, provisions, weathercloaks, and all have been gathered ready there long since, under guard. Fetch only the weapons you most want with you, and tell no one where you're going or what you're about. If anyone follows you to the Goat, I'll I'll deal with them. Swift, now! The sooner gone, the sooner back again-whereupon Narulph here will be able to sleep on his bed of fears a little less fitfully. Dismissed." deal with them. Swift, now! The sooner gone, the sooner back again-whereupon Narulph here will be able to sleep on his bed of fears a little less fitfully. Dismissed."

Everyone broke into chatter and headed for the door, and Sir Starbridge rose from his chair with an air of quiet satisfaction. He'd be in a saddle soon, rather than this G.o.ds-stlarned chair behind this triple-be-d.a.m.ned desk, and that was worth any number of urgent all-hands missions.

So, where had he put that blasted cloak?

Manshoon turned away from both Starbridge's mind and that scrying, enjoying the same satisfaction that the gruff head highknight was feeling.

Another deft manipulation bearing fruit, another piece in the building mosaic...

On to the next piece, over there in that that scene... scene...

Shrouded in the gloom where moonlight was feeble, the muddy midyard was deserted.

Or almost deserted. It was furnished with a few small, moving shadows.

It was the same city mid-yard where Arclath Delcastle and the Crown messenger Delnor had seen a certain mask dancer carrying her nightsoil bucket to a dung wagon.

There were no wagons in the yard at the moment. The prowling shadows belonged to cats out hunting-and a few furtive, smaller, scuttling things that darted from crevices across the yard's few strips of uneven cobbles to handy heaps of fallen refuse, then on into tangled, th.o.r.n.y clumps of weeds, in hopes none of the cats would manage a successful pounce.

High above the midyard, a much larger shadow moved. The size of shadow that would attract the interest of Purple Dragons on Watch duty, had there been any in the midyard.

Dark, lithe, and somehow feminine, it swung down from the roof to hang against a stretch of house wall where it could peer at a certain dark, shuttered window.

Amarune's window.

After a long, silent time of watching and listening, it slipped silently back up onto the roof again.

Where almost immediately there arose a brief disturbance, a choked-off sound of startlement-and a body plunged from that rooftop to splat and bounce heavily on the cobbles, its throat slit.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

BLOOD ON THE R ROOFTOPS.

I thank you, Lord Delcastle," Amarune murmured gravely, sliding into Arclath's arms to look into his eyes from very near, expecting him to want at least a kiss, "and remain mindful of...the debt I owe you. Yet if you have any kind regard for me at all, I would ask that you depart this place now and let me go my own way until at least dusk on the morrow, when-" thank you, Lord Delcastle," Amarune murmured gravely, sliding into Arclath's arms to look into his eyes from very near, expecting him to want at least a kiss, "and remain mindful of...the debt I owe you. Yet if you have any kind regard for me at all, I would ask that you depart this place now and let me go my own way until at least dusk on the morrow, when-"

Arclath was already using the arm that wasn't around her to push open the Dragonriders' street doors. Amarune broke off abruptly at what she saw inside.

At the look on her face, Arclath spun around to see what was the matter, letting the door start to swing closed again, and in so doing whirled Amarune away from what she was facing. With the briefest of angry growls, Amarune swung him around again and forward into the club.

Where amid a quiet cl.u.s.ter of Purple Dragons and servants still cleaning up and a few tables of newly arrived drinkers, Tress was helping a rather tipsy-looking man to his feet. Not one of the n.o.bles who'd brawled so messily in the club earlier, but a rather haughty-looking wizard of war in full palace robes who had evidently just risen from a table and sprawled on his face and was showing signs of doing so again the moment he lost the deft support of the womanly shoulder under one of his armpits.

"Thank you, wench," he was growling rather blearily at Tress. "Know that you have aided a ver' important wizard of the court, who enjoys the ear and confidence of the king himself! Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake am I, and urkgh...I'm going to be sick sick, s'what I'm-"

He promptly demonstrated the truth of his words, with force and enthusiasm.

Arclath and Amarune both raised their eyes to the ceiling in disgust and parted to glide well aside as Tress steered her burden firmly through his own filth and straight to the door.

Two steps away from which the weaving, green-faced Mreldrake caught sight of Amarune, gave her a nasty grin, pointed one shaking finger, and spat maliciously, "You! You're the Silent Shadow, you are!"

"I've skulked in the dark long enough," Elminster growled under his breath. "Time to play the befuddled old man and walk right in there and get to hear just what terms our jaunty young lordling is on with the most important la.s.s in the worl-"

Playing a stooped graybeard to the hilt, he was still three age-shuffling strides away from the doors of the Dragonriders' Club and starting to reach for the nearest smooth-worn door handle, when Amarune Whitewave burst out of those doors, sprinting like the wind, with the bellowed "Stop! Stop and stand!" shout of a Purple Dragon pursuing her.

Elminster blinked, straightened up far too hastily for the decrepit elder he was trying to portray-and slipped. Which left him unable to get out of the way.

Amarune did not try to get out of the way either.

Even as he flung his arms wide to fight for balance, she slammed into him, running hard. The impact s.n.a.t.c.hed the Sage of Shadowdale off his feet and dashed him down on the cobbles in a crash that drove all the wind out of him and brought sharp and instant pain. As she trampled him and ran on, not slowing in the slightest.

Leaving the man who had been the mightiest Chosen of Mystra flat on his back on the cold cobblestones of the street, half-dazed and struggling to breathe through what felt like broken ribs. He couldn't even think of a spell to hurl, not that he had wind enough left to cast anything...

He couldn't even roll over, let alone crawl aside, as a fresh tempest burst out of the Dragonriders' and roared over him, a storm of hard-running Purple Dragons with lungs far healthier than his own, swords glittering in their fists, and very very heavy boots. heavy boots.

He did, in their wake, manage a groan or two.

One of which caught the attention of a telsword who obviously hadn't been given orders to pursue the fleeing woman. Coming out of the club to stand and watch the chase dwindling into the night, he glanced down at the sound of pain then bent to lend the huddled old man a hand.

"Come on, old drunkard! You can't lie here; you'll get trampled, you will!"

"I'm not not drunk," Elminster snarled through his pain. Ribs gone, to be sure. "I'm drunk," Elminster snarled through his pain. Ribs gone, to be sure. "I'm hurt hurt. Some woman ran right through me."

"Which way did she go?" the telsword snapped back, excited in an instant.

"Down the street," Elminster replied dryly. "If she turned off it, I didn't see. I was too busy lying stunned to notice."

"All right, all all right, old jester." The telsword sighed, helping Elminster to sit up against the club wall. He peered down at the weathered old face out of sheer veterans' habit-and frowned. "Have I seen you before? Who are you?" right, old jester." The telsword sighed, helping Elminster to sit up against the club wall. He peered down at the weathered old face out of sheer veterans' habit-and frowned. "Have I seen you before? Who are you?"

"No one important, anymore," Elminster said gruffly. "Just another old man."

"Oh? Living on the streets?"

"When I can't make it home before dark."

"Oh, so you have a home, then."

"Aye."

"So, graybeard, how do you usually spend your days?"

"Growing older," Elminster told him wryly. "And ye?"

It was almost dawn, and a weary and heartsick Amarune Whitewave didn't know what to do.

She was standing in a dark street surrounded by grim-faced Purple Dragons, listening to Lord Arclath Delcastle glibly explain to them all once more that the dancer couldn't possibly possibly be the Silent Shadow, because she'd been with him more than once when that notorious thief had performed a daring theft, and that she must have fled out of sheer fear of being enspelled by a drunken wizard of war. Not only was he of n.o.ble birth, he himself had suffered thefts at the hands of the Shadow, and so, believe me... be the Silent Shadow, because she'd been with him more than once when that notorious thief had performed a daring theft, and that she must have fled out of sheer fear of being enspelled by a drunken wizard of war. Not only was he of n.o.ble birth, he himself had suffered thefts at the hands of the Shadow, and so, believe me...

Oh, G.o.ds. And he was again again, oh-so-gallantly, offering to escort Amarune home.

She wanted to hit him. Or lose herself to sobbing in the warm comfort of his arms, and...she didn't know what she wanted to do.

And she couldn't couldn't stop yawning. stop yawning.

The Dragons believed him, nodding and looking at her with faces a little less unfriendly, and lowering the swords that had been pointed her way.

Which meant they'd soon leave her alone with him. A young and spirited n.o.ble lord who suddenly knew, whatever his clever tongue was saying to them that moment, that she was the Silent Shadow.

She remembered full well she'd stolen from him more than once. So, obviously, did he. Should she just deny all and claim the wizard must have mistaken her for someone else? Finding proof wouldn't be easy-so long as he didn't come upon Ruthgul or any of her other clients, and tie what they said to where she lived-but driving away his suspicions would be harder still. Suspicion always died a slow death.

"Go with the Lord Delcastle, la.s.s," a Purple Dragon was saying in her ear then, kind but firm. "He'll see you safe home."

That's just what he could not not do-but she dared not admit it. do-but she dared not admit it.

Wearily she nodded, half-numb, and accepted Arclath's attentive arm.

All she could think of doing was wandering the streets of Suzail until full day ran him out of time and into the jaws of some important business or appointment or other that he dared not miss. If her legs held out that long and she could keep her eyes open, that is...

"Trust me," Arclath murmured, giving her that bright grin that she couldn't tell if she loved or hated. "Dawn will be breaking soon enough. If you don't happen to live next door or in the rafters above us, we'll have time to see it-and sober, too!"

The stench at the end of the alley was indescribable. "Man-strangling" wasn't a strong enough description. Nor was "forty sick snails lying dead in their own fresh vomit," or "the heaped wet offerings of a hairy garrison all in the throes of the runs, brought on by eating lots of candy and mustard."

El tried all of those and some far more colorful ones on for size as he winced and hobbled his way down the greasy, narrowing, and increasingly refuse-choked way. Even the rats avoided that end of the alley, and the smell had long before forced the boarding-up and mud-sealing of all the windows opening onto it.

Alone in the graying tail end of night, the Sage of Shadowdale set his teeth and lurched on. His many bruises were stiffening, and his ribs felt on fire. He'd fallen twice, many alleys before, but it had been worth it to persuade the young and fastidious Dragon tailing him that he really was an old crazed-wits living on the streets, and make the man turn back. The soldier had fallen at least once, too, and Elminster hoped the young dolt's bright uniform was so besmirched that he was gagging.

Nevertheless, the filth had its uses. Not the least of which was safeguarding what he was retrieving. At the end of the alley was a fly-swarming heap of dung, old topped by fresh, beneath a cracked tile protruding from the wall.

El tugged the tile out-it came away in pieces, just like last time, brown and dripping-and thrust his fingers into the hole it had come from. There was a cavity in one side of that hole, within the thickness of the wall, and-aye!-the rea.s.suring smooth hardness was there. Or rather, hardnesses, five of them. He closed his filthy fingers around the uppermost and then the lowest, drew them both forth, and shoved the tile back into place, piece by piece.

When he was done, the vials, guarded against rust by their own magic, were entirely hidden in fresh, wet dung.

El sighed, wiped his hands on random nearby walls until matters had been reduced to what might delicately be termed "smeared," then trudged back up the alley until he could find s.p.a.ce enough to set the vials down on bare stone, spit on his hands so as to clean them enough to thrust them under his robe to reach his clout, and arrange himself so as to let fly all over the vials, washing them...well, not clean, but a lot cleaner.

So he could twist the uppermost open-an enchanted cap rather than a cork; well, the Art advanced in little things as well as large-and drink its contents down.

It tasted like cold, clear, mint sugar water, soothing all the way down...and brought in its wake that surging, warming thrill of healing, the banishment of the fire in his ribs, the stiffnesses, and all the small aches and pains he'd acquired since the last time he'd had to crawl down that alley.

When all of that was gone, El stood up straight, squared his shoulders, then thrust both vials-the lower one was rea.s.suringly heavy with good Cormyrean coins he'd soon be needing-into his under-robe pouch and started for the street again. He felt whole and strong. Not to mention wealthier.

"See?" Arclath told her as triumphantly as if he were personally responsible. "I told you! Behold, dawn!"