Ed Greenwood - Cormyr

“Exactly. Everyone from the Huntcrowns to the Yellanders wants the council. Even the Illances have set aside their old feud with the Cormaerils to be in on this and upstart houses such as the Flintfeathers are pushing the council as their way of gaining respect among the ‘heavy houses.’ They all-even the three socalled royal houses-see it as a way out from under the tyranny of the Obarskyrs.”

“Into the tyranny of their rivals and neighbors,” said Giogi, “a tyranny that will undoubtedly soon spill over into open violence when various stiff-necked families seek to get even with each other over ‘you voted against me’ grudges.”

“Five months?” Cat asked, considering.

“Nearer three.” Giogi nursed a thumb under his chin. “And that’s assuming that the big houses, who stand to lose everything they’ve gained if the country is plunged into war, try to keep tight reins on things. If just two of the large old houses get annoyed at the same time and don’t work hard at keeping the peace, we could have massacres and then raids and then full-scale battles in a month.”

“That’s right, lift my spirits! Even the young lion I recruited to help me get to the vaults seems to be going sour,” Cat said bitterly. In the darkness, Dauneth’s lips twisted wryly. “Tell me who stands on the side of the wise old regent.”

“Well, there’re the Wyvernspurs!” said Giogi brightly.

“And?”

“Well, there’re the Wyvernspurs,” Giogi added, in mimicry of his own breathless tones.

“Go on,” Cat said, a clear warning to become more serious in her tone.

“Uh.. most of nobility with country estates and holdings: the Dauntinghorns, the Skatterhawks, the Immerdusks, the Wintersuns, the Indimbers, the Rowanmantles, House Indesm, and the Rallyhorns-but not the Roaringhorns, who want king or council and no ruling queen.”

“Could that have anything to do with the fact that the Roaringhorns detest both the Bleth family and the wizard Vangerdahast?” Cat asked with a smile.

“Never,” Giogi said, with mocking shock in his voice. “No noble house of this realm would ever sink to such a shortsighted, personally vindictive level. Not when they can proclaim such actions as part of a grander, higher-minded policy of supporting only what is best for fair Cormyr.”

“Speaking of what is best for fair Cormyr,” Cat asked, “how is our guest in the basement?”

Giogi shuddered. “The guest in the basement,” he declaimed grandly, “is fine. I, however, am frazzled-distinctly frazzled. See?”

He shuddered dramatically, then sighed and said in tired, serious tones, “Restless and ill-behaved children are less problem. Our guest does only three things, and all of them all too well: demand, argue, and worry.” He sighed again. “I’m going to be very glad when all this is over.”

Cat wrinkled her nose. “I’ve hated all this deception and spying on perfidious nobles from the very beginfling,” she said firmly.

Giogi sighed. “I feel the same way, but you must remember that we’re proceeding exactly as Vangerdahast planned, and he’s been at all of this a lot longer than we have.”

“And quite successfully, too,” Cat said. “Dealing smoothly with the mundane work of statecraft as the Royal Magician for years, while crafting spells and making alliances behind the scenes. All in the name of service to the crown.”

“He’s smooth,” Giogi admitted, filling his glass again. “I’ll give him that. Smooth as a greased basilisk. Or something similarly smooth.”

In his dark window, Dauneth nodded grimly. Good old Vangerdahast was the true villain, then-the shadow behind all of the troubles now besetting Cormyr. Of course, if his magic had laid the three royal hunters low, that same magic could keep the puzzled priests and baffled sages from curing his victims.

There was a sudden flash of light from outside. Dauneth looked out the little window to see what had caused it and smiled, slowly and grimly.

The gods did have senses of humor and justice, after all. Here was the fat old spell-hurler himself, come calling on his conspirators with a big smile all over his face! This would save much chasing about and creeping through wizardly defenses, the young Marliir noble thought, reaching for his blade.

Vangerdahast had appeared out of the now fading glow by magic, transporting himself from the palace, and was humming pleasantly as he swung wide the door of Wyvernspur House and strode in.

Moving hastily, Dauneth’s shadowy form dropped down from a balcony and silently slipped in through the slowly closing door, blade glittering in hand. It had been a frantic few minutes of running and clambering and lurking to get here while the stout wizard strolled leisurely among the garden plantings, seeming highly satisfied with Cormyr in general and himself in particular.

Yet he’d made it, and the fat fool hadn’t even noticed the noise or the shadow… the shadow that had skulked long enough!

Dauneth raised his glittering blade and took two catlike, velvety soft steps forward. He did not hold with putting steel into men from behind, but with wizards, all principles were laid aside. The death of Vangerdahast would end a threat to Cormyr as grave as anything the legendary Baerauble had ever dealt with! If a mage had to die by a surprise thrust from behind, then so be it!

Die, wizard! he murmured inwardly, not quite daring to say it aloud, and his blade flashed down.

Let it be swift, let it be now, and let it be for Cormyr!

Year of the Grimoire (1324 DR)

The Royal Magician thundered on the inn door with his fists, the thick frame nearly rattling loose from its hinges. “Balm!” he bellowed. “We have to get on the road!”

On the other side of the door, there were sounds of giggling and hushed, urgent whispers.

Vangerdahast shouted, “Get out of there now, or I swear I’ll teleport you to your father, along with any ‘guests’ you may be currently entertaining.”

The whispers were replaced by the sounds of hasty movements. Vangerdahast counted to ten. Then he counted to ten a second time.

He was up to eight on his third counting when the door cracked open and Crown Prince Azoun, son of Rhigaerd and the fourth Obarskyr to bear that name, squeezed out. He opened the door only sufficiently to allow his growing frame to pass and held the door shut behind him with one hand, tucking his shirt into his breeches with the other.

“Do you have to shout, wizard?” asked the prince in groggy exasperation.

“It’s the only proven way to get words through your ever-thickening skull,” the mage replied. “Unless, of course, you’d rather I took to suddenly manifesting in your sleeping quarters with attendant flashes of fire and smoke.”

Prince Azoun, traveling through his own country as Balm the Cavalier, muttered something definitely unroyal and then said, “Give me ten minutes to gather my gear.”

“Make it five minutes. That way you won’t get distracted again by the young lady.”

Azoun grumbled an assent, and six minutes later he was out in front of the inn, yawning loudly. His pack was on his back, his short sword sheathed on his belt, and a shapeless, wide-brimmed hat covered his head and most of his features. At nineteen winters old, the young noble was already broad-shouldered and handsome. Soon he’d have to make use of magical disguises to avoid being recognized at once.

The larger and more portly Vangerdahast was similarly attired and equipped, save that he had a short walking staff instead of a sword. Azoun had no doubt that the leather-shod walking stick held more magic than any gnarled staff wielded by a more powerful mage.

“Where to today, O learned elder?” asked the prince.