Ed Greenwood - Cormyr

“Troops will remain in Arabel, ostensibly to repair the wall,” said Vangerdahast, “but should remain thereafter in any case. Mabel is a frontier outpost. It should have sufficient protection.”

“Agreed,” said the king. “Cousin Thomdor, you will head up the Purple Dragon forces based here afterward, much as Bhereu controls the High Horn forces.” Both cousins nodded.

“What of the nobles?” asked the wizard.

“What of them?” asked the king.

“The talk in the court lays the weakness in Arabel at the collective feet of the Marliirs,” said the Royal Magician.

“All we know of Gondegal’s preparations has come from the Marliirs,” Thomdor said with a frown. “Old Jolithan Marliir risked a pair of daughters as messengers.”

“The Marliirs are not to blame,” said Azoun. “If anything, our own complacency brought us to this pass, wherein a charismatic impostor king can raise an army in a fortnight and seize a city in a season.”

“True, but you know court politics,” Vangerdahast replied. “Bleth, in particular, has reminded me of his contribution to this venture and of his great interest in seeing the Marliirs fail and a ‘true’ Cormyrean family have their seat in the city. Lord Bleth wants it badly.”

“Lord Bleth will have to he disappointed, then,” said the king. “My cousins are right. It would be unfair to punish the Marliirs after they risked so much for us. Besides, if I install a Bleth or anyone else who still thinks ‘true Cormyreans’ means born and raised in Suzail, I’ll have another revolution on my hands before the decade is out. Anything else?”

There was nothing else, and the king retired to his personal tent while the two cousins peered at every detail of the white stone model, pointing and plotting. Vangerdahast left them to it and wandered to the southern edge of the camp, away from the city.

Here the posted guards were widely spaced and the shadows between the fires deeper and larger. Night held sway, however many swords were gathered under it. He waited, counting the stars in the southern sky.

After about ten minutes, a voice hissed from the darkness. “Black sword.”

“Meets green shield,” the wizard replied.

“To make red war,” the darkness responded and broke away from the shadows to stand before the wizard. One of Vangerdahast’s spies. Let the royal cousins depend on nobles for information. Any wizard worth his cantrips had his own methods and his own servants.

The spy was a young woman in dark cape and leathers. Nothing gleamed upon her save an oversized golden ring on one hand. Her dagger sheaths, one on each hip, were wrapped in dark leather. Her face was soft and cherubic. “My lord wizard,” she said, “I bear news.”

“Speak,” said Vangerdahast.

“Gondegal is gone,” she replied, almost chirping.

“Gone? How so?”

“Vanished, faded away, evaporated with the summer dew,” the spy said happily.

“How comes this to you?” asked Vangerdahast.

“Through one of his captains,” said the girl, “or rather, one of the sword captains he left behind. Gondegal, a half dozen of his closest aides, and the treasure he’s pillaged for the past three months, all have suddenly gone missing from the Citadel. The surviving captains have their collective undergarments in the proverbial knot over this, but for all their hunting about the city, uproof and downcellar, there is no sign of their heroic master.”

“And what are their plans in the absence of their leader?” asked Vangerdahast, smiling in the darkness.

“The mages who allied themselves with Gondegal have already left the city by their own powers. The remaining leadership is split, but the larger faction supports freeing the Marliirs to plead for mercy with the king on their behalf.”

Vangerdahast patted his wide belly with both hands. “Return to the city, then, and pass this message on to the Marliirs: There will be a general amnesty, provided the gates are thrown open to the king at the first approach of his forces. Gondegal’s men should be waiting, unarmored and unarmed, at the base of the Citadel. The king will pardon all who are there but hunt down the rest to their deaths. Can you get that message back?”

“Without a doubt,” said the spy. “I go.”

“In good fortune,” the wizard murmured and watched her fade back into the darkness. His eyes never could follow her far. Gazing into the night, Vangerdahast permitted himself a broad smile.

Then, mastering his face and emotions, he turned and strode back to the king’s pavilion.

As before, Gondegal had chosen to run rather than fight. But this time he’d left a city behind, a city that would laud the arriving king as a savior and forever crush the bandit king’s hopes for an empire. Not a bad little war. Mabel regained and its loyalty ensured for the next generation, with not a drop of blood shed.

They’d have to check with the outriders, of course, but the wizard believed his spy. There would be no report of any horsemen fleeing the city, no signs of any foul play among Gondegal’s supporters, no bodies turning up mysteriously. And in the morning, they’d form up as planned, in full array, and go ahead-but instead of death and falling walls, the gates to Mabel would be swung wide, and the city would be spared. The king would get flowers instead of swords.

But best to tell Azoun alone about this, the wizard reasoned. If a surrender did not occur, the army of Cormyr would have to proceed with the attack. Men braced to fight would respond well to celebration, but men expecting a surrender would not be ready for battle.

Vangerdahast’s route took him through the wide circle of outward-facing Purple Dragons, who passed him through with silent nods of recognition. He proceeded around the pavilion and along the back of the king’s private tent. The low light within cast the shadow of the royal occupant onto the canvas-no, two occupants’ shadows, sithouettes moving and merging. Through the tent walls, he heard gasps, heavy breathing, and soft sighs.

The wizard cursed to himself. Even on the eve of battle, in the middle of an armed camp, Azoun could not keep his Obarskyr blood from boiling over. There had been enough misadventures over the years to teach any king a little prudence, but the hardheaded kings of Cormyr never seemed able to care about the danger inherent in trysts.

Vangerdahast circled the tent. A single guard was posted before the hoop-arch tunnel that led to its door.

The noise and shadows were not obvious from this side, facing the crowded camp, and the wizard thanked Tymora for the king’s good sense-or blind luck-in choosing his bedroll spot. The guard was fresh-faced and young, a new conscript from some country town.

“Tell the king to contact me as soon as he is done,” the Royal Magician said in a loud, brisk voice, then lowered his tones and added, “And see that the young woman is escorted quickly and quietly from the campground as well.”

The youngster goggled at the elder wizard as if he had suddenly spoken of flying dogs.

“Done?” asked the youth, his voice cracking. “His Majesty was retiring for the evening and dismissed me from his quarters. There was no woman there then, and none have passed me since!”

Vangerdahast looked at the boy but could discern no lie on that set, firm, loyal face. He peered to the right, and the guard turned to look that way as well. With a snarl, the wizard brushed past the guard on his left, and the confused youngster snapped a quick protest and then trotted into the tent after the wizard’s fast-moving back.

The king’s personal sleeping quarters were at the back of the tent, behind a fabric screen that muffled both sound and light. The wizard burst through these and cursed at the sight.