Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

The servant with the hunting horn blew a too-loud, wandering-note flourish, and the newcomer didn’t trouble to hide his wince and frown. He extended his left hand in a fist, displaying a ring to the already-bowing seneschal, and snapped his fingers.

In answer to this signal, a servant still hastening out of the coach declaimed grandly, “All hail and make welcome Lord Jalanus Westerbotham, Scepter of Justice, Dragonfang Lord Investigator for Northbank, Starwater, and the Western Coast!”

The figure in purple inclined his head in coldly distant greeting to the three noble lords, swept past them and their daughters, ignored Rhauligan and a hastily-arrayed lineup of household servants, and strode toward the pillared entry of Taverton Hall. The seneschal practically sprinted to catch up with him, holding his ceremonial sword at one hip. Rhauligan gave Greiryn a cheerful grin as he puffed past, and was rewarded with a fierce scowl.

“Lord Jalanus!” the seneschal gasped, trying to smile, “be welcome indeed in Taverton Hall. A sad occasion calls you here, but I’m sure that your stay flee…”

“Where, man, are my quarters?” the war wizard demanded, in tones that Rhauligan promptly (and privately) dubbed “coldly patrician.”

“Ah, we’ve prepared the Ducal Suite for you, milord,” Greiryn said, waving a hand down the central hallway. “It’s just ahead there; that door where the servants are waiting.”

“I must see to its suitability, and theirs,” Lord Jalanus said in a voice that managed to combine equal parts irritation at having to deal with dunderheads and gloomy anticipation of personal hardship and disappointment to come. He drew a slim, shiny black wand from his belt with a flourish, and marched off down the hail.

His servants streamed after him, pushing past Glarasteer Rhauligan on both sides. The merchant staggered first to the left and then to the right under their bruising impacts, and then shrugged and thrust out his foot, sending a heavily-laden servant crashing onto his face. Deftly he snatched up two carrychests from the chaos that had been the servant’s high-stacked load, and joined the general rush down the hall. A ragged shout followed him, and as he turned to enter the Ducal Suite, an angry hand plucked at his sleeve.

“Hey, now, you…”

“Come, come, man,” Rhauligan said grandly, “make yourself useful. Lord Wetterbottom seems to have brought no end of clobber with him up the short road from Suzail. Stir yourself to carry some of it, as I have!”

“You…”

Greiryn’s face swung into view, lit with fury, and over his shoulder looked Lord Jalanus, boredom and withering scorn now vying for supremacy on his features.

“Merchant!” the seneschal snapped, “surrender those chests at once! I’ll have you thrown out of the Hall-with coach whips!-if you aren’t gone by the time our esteemed guest is settled! Do you hear?”

“Along with everyone in southern Cormyr,” Rhauligan murmured mildly, extending his arms and dropping both chests on the highly-polished toes of Greiryn’s best boots, “But to hear, I fear, is not always to obey.”

“It is, among servants at court,” the war wizard sneered as Immult Greiryn uttered a strangled shriek, bending over to clutch at his toes.

Rhauligan gave him a broad smile. “That’s not what Vangey-oh, the Lord Vangerdahast to you, no doubt-is always complaining to me. Why…”

“Guards!” roared the seneschal. “Arrest this man! He…”

“Will go quite quietly, once this is all settled and I can keep my appointment with the surviving Lord Paertrover,” Rhauligan said, stepping swiftly back against a wall as the heavy clump of hastening boots rang down the hallway. “I must be present when Wetterbottom here listens to all the evidence, and goes with his spells to interroer, interview my future client.”

“Oh?”

The war wizard put out an imperious hand to silence Greiryn and push him aside, and his tones were silky as he advanced to face the stout merchant nose to nose, bringing his other hand up with slow menace to show the entire hallway of staring guards and servants the ornate and heavy rings that gleamed and glittered on his fingers. “By what bold right, man, do you make such insistence?”

Glarasteer Rhauligan smiled easily and reached into the open front of his loose shirt.

“Before you do anything rash,” Lord Jalanus added quickly, “I must remind you that there are laws in fair Cormyr, and I, ‘Wetterbottom’ or not, am sworn to uphold them. I need no court to mete out final-fatal-justice.” One of the rings he wore flashed once, warningly.

“Your slumbers must be troubled,” Rhauligan replied in tones of gentle pity, as he slowly drew forth something small and silver on a chain, holding it cupped in his hand for only the wizard and Greiryn to see. It was a rounded silver harp: the badge of a Harper. “I have also come here from Suzail,” the merchant told them softly, and leaned forward to add in a very loud whisper, “and I was sent by someone very highly placed in court.”

The war wizard’s eyes flickered, and he spun around with an angry flourish. “Admit him to my investigations,” he snapped at the seneschal-and then wheeled around again to add curtly to Rhauligan, “Cross not my authority in the smallest way. Your presence I’ll grant, but you are to be silent and refrain from meddling. Understand?”

Rhauligan spread his hands. “Your words are clarity and simplicity itself.”

Lord Jalanus glared at him for a long moment, sensed nothing more was forthcoming, and turned on his heel again without another word. The merchant favored his retreating back with a florid court bow that made one of the servants snigger. Greiryn’s head snapped up to glare-but the culprit, whoever it was, lurked somewhere in the stone faced ranks of the wizard’s own servants, not the folk of the Hall.

Rhauligan smiled fondly at him. “As Lord Wetterbottorn seems to need the entire Ducal Suite, could you open the Royal Rooms for me? Hmmm?”

The seneschal’s hands came up like trembling claws, reaching for Rhauligan’s throat, before more prudent thought stilled them. More anonymous titters were heard-and this time, some of them came from the servants of the Hall.

“The day,” Rhauligan remarked to the world at large, as he strode off down the hallway, “does not seem to be proceeding well for seneschals, does it?”

“But he must have done it!” Greiryn protested. “We all saw him holding the bow! T-the string was still quivering!”

“My spells,” Lord Jalanus said icily, “do not lie. Lord Crimmon is innocent.”

“I-I quite understand,” the seneschal said hastily. “I didn’t mean to doubt you! It’s just so… so bewildering. Who can have done it, then?”

“Bolyth,” the war wizard snapped, turning to the mountainous Purple Dragon who always lurked at his elbow, “have the gates closed immediately. Post guards; I want this estate sealed. Seneschal, reveal unto me, as soon as your wits allow, who-if anyone-has left this house since the deaths.” He rose in a swirl of doth-of-gold and claret-hued velvet oversleeves, his third change of garments in as many hours.

“I-but of course,” Greiryn agreed, almost babbling. “There can’t be all that many. We’re not like the Dales here, with Elminster flitting in and out like some great night bat!”

Behind them both, a suit of armor in the corner blurred momentarily. Rhauligan saw it become a white-bearded man in robes, wink at him, and wave cheerily. He winked back, just before the armor became simply armor again.

Oblivious to this visitation, the seneschal was babbling on, clearly shaken at the thought of his young lord master’s innocence. Now that was interesting in itself… “Uh, great Lord Justice,” Greiryn interrupted himself, “where’re you going now?”