James Lowder - Crusade

He smiled to himself beneath his powdered white beard. "Yes," Azoun agreed softly. "Long live the king."

"And your damned guild brothers will pay for their grumbling," the mail-clad warrior added, swinging his mug toward the table by the door. Brak grumbled something under his breath, but remained silent.

Azoun didn't miss the reference to the trappers and quickly moved to the table of the man who'd made the toast. "May I join you?" When the man nodded, the king took a seat on the rickety bench across from him. "What was that about the trappers, young man?" he asked in a soft voice.

After a long swallow of ale, the warrior leveled his gaze on the king. "A guild should be responsible for its members." He cast a withering glance at Brak, then added, "He's an influential member of the Trappers' Guild, so-"

Abruptly Azoun held up his hand. "The attack on the king," he finished. "So that's the source of your animosity." He studied the man across the table for a moment before he asked his next question.

He's probably a mercenary, the king decided. The warrior was by no means unhandsome, but the look of dogged obstinacy that clung to his square features made him appear contentious. After a moment, Azoun reconsidered his opinion. The man was fastidiously dressed; his mail shone as if recently polished, his leather breeches and silk surcoat were spotless. No, not a mercenary, the king concluded. More likely a paladin of some lawful order.

Azoun leaned close. "The name's Balin," he said. "Well met… er…"

"Ambrosius." The man reached out and clasped Azoun's forearm in a traditional greeting. "Ambrosius, Knight of Tyr." A slightly puzzled look crossed his face as he let the king's arm go.

Without letting it register on his face, Azoun cursed to himself. The man was a paladin, a holy knight of the God of Justice. Such warriors were difficult to fool, and it seemed for an instant, when Ambrosius had grasped his arm. . The king smiled wanly through his powdered beard and started to rise.

"No need to hurry," Ambrosius said flatly, clasping a strong arm around Azoun's wrist. "I am always at a loss for personable men to share conversation with me here." When the king hesitated, the knight whispered, "Do not make a scene, good sir. I simply want to know for whom you spy."

With a sigh, Azoun took his seat. "I am here on the king's business," he replied. "Is my disguise so poor that you can see through it so easily?"

Ambrosius thrust his square chin out and looked at Azoun with that expression of doggedness. "Your arm is far too muscular for a man of the age you pretend to be," he whispered. "I do not approve of spies or subterfuge. I've learned long ago to ferret out such as you."

The knight paused, then asked, "My toast to the king was sincere. What does His Highness wish to know?"

"The feelings of his subjects on the crusade," Azoun replied. "As well as the disposition of the Trappers' Guild toward the king himself."

Ambrosius laughed, a deep, robust sound that came from his heart. "The first is a simple matter to discern. There are hundreds of the king's loyal subjects-myself included- who have signed on already for the crusade." The paladin leaned back in his chair. "The other is more complex."

After rubbing his chin for a moment, the knight of Tyr smiled broadly. "But, again, there is simple way to the truth." Without pause, he turned to Brak. "Ho, trapper! This man wants to know your guild's attitude toward the king," he said truthfully.

The bar quieted slightly, and Brak stared at the paladin and the king like an enraged cyclops. "I don't want to answer to the likes of you, Ambrosius," the trapper slurred.

The reason for that would have been obvious to anyone in the Black Rat who knew Ambrosius to be a paladin. Such holy knights, because of their devotion to their gods, were sometimes gifted with the power to detect evil in other men's hearts.

"You needn't fear answering unless the trappers were in league against the king," Ambrosius announced. Now the bar was silent, and everyone looked toward Brak. The one-eyed trapper shifted nervously in his seat. "Best answer right away," the paladin added after scanning the room. "It seems there are many here who wonder what your guild has been up to."

A tense silence followed. Brak took a long sip of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his callused hand. "The Trappers' Guild didn't have anything to do with the attack on the king," he grumbled. He met Ambrosius's steady gaze with his one good eye. "But we don't make no secret of the fact we oppose the crusade."

Ambrosius said nothing as he returned to his seat. Most of the patrons at the Black Rat turned back to their drinks and their private conversations, though a few still watched the trapper and the paladin. Azoun shook his head. "You could have asked the same question without revealing me as the king's man," he said.

"As I said before, I have no use for spies. You get more by asking questions directly."

"I take it the trapper was telling the truth?"

"Of course," Ambrosius replied. "Brak knows me far too well to consider lying."

After talking with the paladin for a time, sipping on the inn's dark, bitter ale, the king stood and headed toward the door. Brak scowled slightly as Azoun passed, but the drunken trapper was quickly dragged back into an animated conversation about the Tuigan. Azoun heard someone say, "There's no way we can lose with the armies of Faerun brought together like that!" He offered a silent prayer that the man was right, then moved once more into the cold night air.

This chill is the last gasp of winter, Azoun decided as he hugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders. That means the Tuigan are probably on the move again in Thay. The armies of Faerun can gather none too soon now.

And from all that Azoun had learned that day, he was sure it was safe to proceed. The people of Suzail supported his crusade, despite the seemingly isolated unrest amongst a few of the guilds. Though the merchants grumbled about the taxes, the king knew that they rarely stopped complaining about such things. More importantly, the king felt secure that the would-be assassin was working alone.

Azoun shivered in the frosty air and pulled the worn cloak tighter still. The tattered disguise tore under the strength of his grasp. He looked at the ripped cloak and smiled.

On days when he had been in a good mood, Azoun's father had called his son's interest in the theater and costumes a waste of time. At times when the hawks refused to cooperate or the nobles were particularly fractious, King Rhigaerd II had given Prince Azoun's hobby a few less diplomatic titles. At that moment, as he made his way through Suzail, the king of Cormyr thanked the gods that he'd chosen the Black Rat to visit. He smiled with the knowledge that his penchant for disguises had indeed served him well.

Azoun sat back in the cushioned chair and allowed himself to relax. It was the first time in two tendays he'd taken such a luxury.

"One day out, many more to go, eh Thom?" the king asked absently.

The bard sat at a steel-legged wooden table, taking notes for the crusade's annals. He finished a sentence or two, then looked up and nodded. "By the time we get to our destination, I should have the section on the crusade's organization completed."

Azoun closed his eyes and rested his head against the cabin wall. "Let's hope the battles don't prove any more difficult than raising the troops has."

Thom Reaverson didn't answer; it was obvious Azoun didn't expect one. Within a few moments, the king had drifted off to sleep, lulled by the gentle rocking of the Cormyrian carrack as it made its way across the Lake of Dragons. The bard listened for a moment to the creaking of the ship and the sounds of the crew going about its business abovedeck. After a while, he turned back to his work.