James Lowder - Crusade

The trapper closed his eyes and ran his hand over the leather guild patch tied around his arm. It was an action he'd repeated many times during the long night's interrogation. For a moment, the close, stone-walled cell grew quiet.

Dimswart rubbed his red, puffy eyes and looked down at the notes he'd compiled. Bors-that was the only name the man had as far as they could learn-claimed to have acted out of public spirit in his attempt on Azoun's life. A down-and-out trapper, barely making enough to pay his guild dues, the would-be assassin was sure that the expedition against the Tuigan would ruin the meager life he still had. Killing Azoun was the only way he knew to stop that disaster.

"What about guild members buying weapons, arrows and the like?" Dimswart asked, turning his gaze to the only other item in his notes. The fletcher who had captured Bors in the Royal Gardens had also told the king's guard about another trapper, one who had tried to purchase a large number of arrows the morning of the attack.

"I don't know nothing about that," Bors grumbled. "This ain't guild business. I meant only to harm Azoun."

Vangerdahast cursed bitterly. "Well, you certainly did more damage than that, didn't you? Fifteen dead. Twenty more horribly burned." The wizard leaned close to the man and added, "The gods will not look kindly on this, and I'm sure you'll be visiting the Realm of the Dead very soon."

For the first time during the long hours of questioning Bors's face betrayed something other than rigid anger. The flickering light from the single tallow candle that burned in the cell revealed the fear on the thin man's hateful face. That expression lasted only an instant.

"I've told ye that I'm sorry for harming those poor folk unfortunate enough to be standing near the stage," Bors said, his voice low and even. "But I can't show ye my soul, so don't second guess the gods as to my punishment… if they see fit to punish me at all for trying to save innocent Cormyrian lives from a needless fight."

Dimswart rolled up his parchment, put away his ink and stylus, and abruptly rose to his feet. "Come on, Vangy. Let him rest. We've learned all he's going to tell."

The royal wizard glanced once at Bors, then called for the guard. A helmeted man appeared, wearing the purple dragon, symbol of King Azoun, emblazoned on his tunic. The long sword he wore at his side hung down past his woolen breeches and almost to the heels of his high, soft leather boots. The guard quickly opened the iron-braced door and let Dimswart and Vangerdahast out. "Make sure the prisoner doesn't kill himself," the wizard noted as he left.

Vangerdahast walked stiffly down the tower's broad stone steps. Through the arrow loops cut into the thick walls every ten feet or so on the stairs, he could see the first feeble rays of the morning sun. The light cast flowing ghostly images before Vangerdahast's eyes. The wizard staggered for a moment, but leaned against the cold gray wall before he could fall.

Dimswart patted the paunchy old man lightly on the back. "Not used to staying up all night anymore, eh, Vangy?"

The wizard shook his head and frowned. "These are strange days, Dimswart," he said, continuing down the steps, this time at a slower pace. "At the moment, I wonder if I shall ever sleep again."

The sage moved to Vangerdahast's side. "I believe him, you know-about not serving the guild."

"Eh?"

"Bors," Dimswart began again. "I think he's telling the truth. You can see it in his eyes." He paused for a moment, then added with a slight smile, "Besides, my sources tell me that the guilds would plan something far more elaborate than one man reading a spell from a scroll."

Again Vangerdahast steadied himself with a hand against the wall. After four or five stairs, he stopped and turned to the gray-haired sage. "I find it hard to believe that he actually had enough money to purchase a scroll of that power."

Shaking his head, Dimswart folded his arms across his chest. "I don't think the fool who sold the scroll to him realized what he had. Or perhaps it was stolen and some wandering thief wanted to be rid of it. There's a thriving black market for magic in any city the size of Suzail."

"And the money?" the wizard asked impatiently.

The sage smiled, this time a broad, self-assured grin. "He had to have a little money from winter trapping. He probably spent all of it on the scroll. Did Bors look like he'd eaten recently to you?"

"So this was his last hope," Vangerdahast concluded, stroking his beard. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he conceded, "It makes some sense, I suppose."

The wizard and the sage walked the rest of the way down the tower without saying another word, lost in their own theories about the assassination attempt. They crossed the frost-covered courtyard to the main keep the same way, and only spoke when they'd entered the palace and reached the antechamber to the king's quarters.

Azoun was sitting in a corner of the small room, tugging at the corners of his mustache, when Vangerdahast opened the door. The king still wore the clothes he'd changed into immediately after the attack: a plain tunic and breeches, with high, black boots. A thick purple cloak hung carelessly from his shoulders, probably put there by Queen Filfaeril sometime during the night.

Vangerdahast couldn't help but feel the monarch looked as if he were stranded on some desolate stretch of beach, shipwrecked and alone. The room's few candles and the thin sunlight from the window cast deep, aging shadows on Azoun's face. After the sage and wizard had entered the room, Vangerdahast cleared his throat noisily. When Azoun looked up, his dark-circled eyes and pale complexion only heightened his appearance as a lonesome castaway.

"We're done interviewing the trapper," Dimswart noted softly.

"Is Zhentil Keep involved? Or the guilds?" The king asked the questions casually, offhandedly. This wasn't the first time someone had attempted to take his life; conspiracies and failed assassinations had become a part of Azoun's everyday existence.

Rubbing the knotted muscles in his neck, Vangerdahast eased himself into a padded chair. "Your friend, the 'Sage of Suzail,' believes Bors was working alone. He has a few interesting points, but I'm not convinced. We've heard the trappers are gathering weapons, too. This could mean trouble."

Dimswart shrugged. "That was an awfully sloppy assassination attempt for one sponsored by a powerful guild."

"I thought the people, the merchants would understand. I thought they'd be the first to see how necessary this is." The king turned toward the window, which overlooked the gardens, and noticed for the first time that the sun was coming up. "We've been up all night," he noted absently.

"You should rest, Azoun," the royal wizard said, concern coloring his voice. "The special envoy from Zhentil Keep will be here late this morning to discuss the crusade."

Inhaling deeply, then sighing, Azoun stood. The cloak slid from his shoulders and dropped into liquid folds of fine cloth at his feet. "It's all getting out of control," he said, half to himself. "I can't let that happen."

As Azoun paused, standing lost in his own wandering thoughts, Dimswart noticed that the king's age dragged heavily upon him. Azoun's shoulders stooped slightly, and his arms and legs seemed slack. "Vangy's right. You need to rest."

The king snapped out of his reverie and looked at the sage. "Did I hear you correctly, Dimswart?" he asked, a trace of a sad smile on his lips. "Did you actually agree with Vangerdahast?" The gray-haired man nodded, though he found he couldn't return even his friend's half-smile.

"I suppose you're both right," the king concluded at last. He walked to the nearest candle and snuffed it out. "I tried to sleep earlier. It didn't do me much good."