Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

The Bard of Shadowdale settled into carefully watching other diners, looking for the slight gestures of a stealthily cast spell or the shifting of muscles that might herald the hurling of a blade. She was paying particular care to the coldly smiling mask that was the face of the Dowager Lady Pheirauze. The matriarch was obviously aware of her scrutiny, and was letting nothing slip—if anything ever did.

Storm did, however, notice when Thalance slowly and quietly drew his chair back, to sit sipping wine and listening … and a little later, silently set down his glass and slipped away.

The seneschal obviously thought the debate about the ghost dragons was far too familiar ground to still hold any interest. He turned to Storm to remark quietly, “I must leave briefly to attend my duties, Lady Silverhand—but before I go, I think it best to tell you just a little more about the Summerstars than you’ve yet been privy to. I’d like to avoid armed battle here in the keep between you and any of them, if at all possible.”

“I, too,” Storm murmured.

Renglar Baerest smiled tightly, and said, “Know, then: the Lady Pheirauze has never remarried, but persistent rumors have linked her to no less than three generations of the Illance noble line. I’d not speak disparagingly of that family—nor allude to any closeness between it and herself—if I were you.”

He inclined his head toward another Summerstar. “You have already measured Erlandar; be warned that he likes to crush women or bed them, and will not rest, now, until he’s served you with one fate or the other. We see little of Thalance—he’s faded away on us again now, I see—but I’m told the local loose ladies and young drinkers do.”

He sighed, and added more quietly, his voice just barely above a whisper, “The Lady Zarova has tried to take her own life more than once, when her mother-in-law was particularly … difficult. Before wedding Pyramus, she was of the noble house of Battlestar, who dwell on the West Shore, not far outside Suzail. She’ll be intensely uncomfortable if you ask her anything in front of Pheirauze or Erlandar.”

The seneschal glanced down the table at the two senior Summerstar nobles as he named them, and noticed the eyes of the elder dowager lady were cold, hard as daggers, and fixed firmly on him.

With a smile, he turned back to Storm and said, a trifle more loudly, “An unexpected pleasure to meet a fellow gardener; we must talk again. I’ve heard how lush you and your neighbors keep Shadowdale.”

“And I’m interested in the herb-plantings I saw on my way in,” Storm replied promptly. “Yes, let’s trade secrets … and seeds.” They exchanged nods of agreement, and the seneschal rose, bowed, and left the hall. The eyes of the Dowager Lady Pheirauze followed his every step—and when he was gone, turned swiftly back to meet those of Storm, who had been watching her.

Storm raised her goblet to Pheirauze in salute, added a merry smile and a nod. Then she glanced toward the war wizards. They seemed to have forgotten their guest for the moment. With heat and scornful disputation, they discussed the legendary and recent hauntings of Firefall Keep.

“Any fool—save perhaps yourself, Hundarr—knows phantoms can’t carry or disturb swords and coins and such! If things were stolen or shifted about, we’re talking some other sort of undead!”

“Well, Sir Exalted Expert, what sort?”

“Gods take you, Hund—”

“Goodsirs!” Erlandar said firmly. “Entertaining though this may be—and I’m not one to miss a chance to hear a mage make a fool of himself—I’ve heard about enough nonsense for one night! I doubt our guest appreciates knowing what fearsome thing lurks in the Haunted Tower! It’s enough to know that something fell and sinister is there—something that slew young Athlan, pride of the Summerstars. Keeping out of the Haunted Tower is the best policy for us all to follow.” He swung his head to deliver a cold, heavy glare across the table, and added, “Even clever and beautiful Harpers.”

Storm laughed lightly. “Another of your challenges, Lord Summerstar? They come so thick and fast—almost like the courting comments of an ardent man!”

Erlandar Summerstar grinned slowly. “Aye, so they do … strange the similarities, eh?”

Storm smiled back at him, but let her eyes show her true feelings. If she’d thought to leave just a little of that soup, she could have kissed the man and passed the poison on to him.…

Erlandar winked at her, and then leered again. No, Storm thought, poison was too gentle. It had to be a sword—deftly wielded, to make his end slow and painful.…

Erlandar winked again. Well, Storm thought, painful at any rate.…

Renglar Baerest, seneschal of Firefall Keep, stood in the courtyard of the fortress he had come to love, facing a silently floating strongchest. It belonged to a woman who might well be able to shatter the keep and hurl it down stone by stone until only windblown dust was left. Seneschal or not, he might well be making a terrible mistake—but he had to be sure.

Swallowing, Renglar took a step forward and laid a firm hand on the side of the chest. It promptly and silently sank to a gentle grounding on the cobbles, and opened itself. The seneschal stared down at the satchels, coffers, duffels, and trunks crammed into it. He sighed and began carefully lifting them out and placing them on the blanket-padded service carts he’d brought. It was a long way to the quarters he’d chosen for the most distinguished—and dangerous—guest to visit the keep during his tenure, but this was one job he was going to do alone.

He’d have insisted on that even if any of the servants had dared to help him.

“We call it brittle tart,” Lady Margort Summerstar said stiffly. “And serve it with dry wine at the end of most high meals.” She paused for a moment, and then asked coldly, “You do have dessert in—oh, wherever is it again, dear?”

“Shadowdale,” her sister said with a sneer, rubies glittering as she leaned sideways to speak by Margort’s ear.

“Ah, yes, thank you, Nalanna,” Margort continued. “You do have desserts in Shadowdale, don’t you?”

“Once or twice a year,” Storm said solemnly, “when dragging the plows around all day and whipping ourselves to go faster leaves us enough energy to eat an extra course. Then we enjoy crushed apples, or sometimes just handfuls of sugar. We’re too poor and backward to have oxen, you see.”

“Ah,” the Lady Nalanna Summerstar said in tones of satisfaction. “I thought so.”

“Lady Silverhand,” the Dowager Lady Pheirauze said coldly, “stop toying with my kinswomen. I expect better behavior from my guests.”

Storm raised her brows as she set the last bones of her roast boar aside. It had been delicious—poisoned again, but delicious. “They do seem to keep disappointing you, though, don’t they?”

“We do not,” Pheirauze observed frostily, “have many guests here in the vale.”

“Aye,” Storm Silverhand replied, tossing a stray lock of long silver hair back over her right shoulder to join the rest of the glossy flow there, “that I can well believe.”

One of the war wizards snickered, and Pheirauze stiffened. Only pride kept her from looking away from Storm’s steady gaze. An instant later, anger broke that reserve, and the dowager lady’s head snapped around. By then, though, the mage had recovered his control, and all the war wizards wore frowningly thoughtful faces.

Damn them, Pheirauze thought. Just once, she’d like to wipe that smug standing-above-everyone-but-caring-about-the-realm worldly confidence off their faces. Just once. She wondered what it would take.…

Renglar Baerest, seneschal of Firefall Keep, puffed one last time into the room with the soft gray tapestries. Lady Maerla’s Room, it was—the most remote and smallest of the guest apartments, and hard by the dusty passages that led into the Haunted Tower. It was a fitting place for Lady Silverhand to sleep. Maerla had been a Harper and a quiet, strong-willed woman who’d dabbled in magic, the family history said. She was an adventuress who’d married a Summerstar out of love.