Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

Storm looked at the seneschal’s skull-smile and his fear-filled, staring eyes. She swung her gaze back to meet the steward’s own. She managed a wan smile, and said, “They don’t owe me a victory, Ilgreth. But they do owe one to four men no longer with us—and perhaps many more if the cause of all this isn’t soon found and stopped.”

As the words left her mouth, the seneschal’s skull suddenly toppled from his shoulders, bounced once on his thigh, fell to the floor, and rolled to her feet.

As its dead eyes gazed up at them, Drimmer burst into fresh tears. Storm held him, and then, softly, lifted her voice in the first mournful cry of the “Soldier’s Farewell.”

At her feet, Renglar Baerest went on grinning.

“Legendary godservant, my left elbow!” Erlandar Summerstar snorted. Elbow was not the word he’d first thought of. “She’s a saucy wench who wraps herself in a few protective spells and knows a few tricks.”

“Good uncle,” the Dowager Lady Zarova Summerstar said firmly, “can we speak of other things? Unwelcome a guest as she may be to some of us, my son’s written wishes did bring her here. I am more shocked at what befell her than I am at the discovery that if her clothes burn away, she’s naked. I trust none of these mages here would deal in such deadly magic—and yet who else could have done it?”

All of the diners stared at her; the younger dowager spoke so seldom that some of the servants in the hall had never before heard her voice.

Her daughter Shayna, heiress of the Summerstars, nodded. “I, too, would like to hear what the gentlemen of the Sevensash have to say for themselves,” she said firmly. “Lady bard or no lady bard, flames nearly brought down the roof of this hall, and I would know why.”

She turned her head, emerald eyes flashing, and caught the frowning gaze of Broglan Sarmyn. Pheirauze and Erlandar added the weight of their regard, and Broglan suddenly found himself dancing on the ends of six hard gazes, and finding them all too much like daggers.

“I-It’s no doing of any of us,” the worried-looking senior wizard said hastily, looking from one hostile Summerstar to another. “We’re just as … mystified as any of you.”

“Why?” Pheirauze said cuttingly. “We’re not the experts in magic here—you are. We’ve dined in this hall for more nights than I can count, year after year, never seeing flames roar up out of nowhere—until now, when you are here: a row of war wizards, skilled in battle magic. What else but your guilt am I—are any of us—to conclude? I’ve half a mind to summon that Purple Dragon commander here to send a complaint about you to the court, forthwith.”

“Lady,” came the deep voice of Ergluth Rowanmantle from behind her, “I am here.”

The diners turned in their chairs, startled.

“I don’t recall summoning you,” Pheirauze snapped at him, nettled. “Why—?”

“Nevertheless,” the eagle-eyed officer said flatly as he strode forward, “I am here. My duty to the king requires it of me. I bring a question: where is Thalance, and when did he leave you?”

“Why?” the elder dowager lady almost snarled. “What are you accusing him of?”

“Nothing, lady,” the boldshield told her, towering over her chair. “I need to know where he is, so that I can protect him.”

“Against what?” Erlandar asked, eyes narrowing.

“Against whomever—or whatever—murdered your seneschal in my bedchamber,” Storm Silverhand replied, stepping out from behind the Purple Dragon. Instead of a gown, she wore a well-used leather war harness—armor that bristled with swords and daggers in plenty.

The steward of the feast hall quavered behind her for a moment, a neatly folded tablecloth shaking in his hands. He then scurried to the sideboard to serve sherries and wines to the assembled company.

Most of them looked like they needed such bracing refreshments. They stared at Storm’s warrior garb, even more astonished than they had been after the flames.

“What?” Erlandar repeated, glaring at Storm in open-mouthed disbelief. “What’re you playing at?”

“I’m not the one who’s been playing at things around here, Lord Summerstar,” Storm told him crisply. “Renglar Baerest is sitting on my luggage with his guts torn out of him—and his skull burned bare and empty. After what befell Athlan, is the word ‘murdered’ still unfamiliar to you?”

Shayna gave a little scream, and her face twisted. Her hands flew to her mouth. Down the line of pale war wizards, someone’s face—Hundarr’s, was it?—creased in revulsion. He gagged over his empty plate.

Ergluth Rowanmantle went to stand watchfully behind the Summerstar heiress, never taking his eyes off the other diners. He’d been staring at faces intently since Storm’s first words, trying to catch sight of a suspicious reaction. Of course, he reflected grimly, he couldn’t watch the absent Thalance.

The stout, bewhiskered boldshield loomed like a mountain over Shayna. His eyes were cold as his gaze met the shocked, angry glares of Erlandar and Pheirauze Summerstar. His hairy, muscular arms were crossed in front of his chest—but the fingers of one hand rested on the haft of his mace of office. The fingers of the other were on the pommel of the heavy broadsword he wore. “Where is Thalance?” he asked quietly.

Pheirauze flushed crimson. “How dare you imply—” she began, voice rising in a magnificently trembling cry of outrage.

“I imply nothing, Dowager Lady,” Ergluth rumbled, drowning out her words without seeming to raise his voice in the slightest. “I leave such subtle nonsense to those who have the leisure for it—such as the nobility of Cormyr. I ask a simple question, in the king’s name, and expect a clear and swift answer of you: where is Thalance?”

“I—I know not,” Pheirauze snapped, blinking. “I’m not the lad’s keeper!”

“Lucky him,” someone among the war wizards murmured quite clearly.

The boldshield turned and snapped, “Find Thalance Summerstar at once! Guard him, hold him in one place in the name of the king, and report back!”

“Sir!” the Purple Dragons by the door chorused. They rushed out, leaving only two of their number behind, standing on either side of the door. For the first time, the Summerstars noticed that these guards were hefting loaded and ready slings, and looking alertly at all the diners.

The war wizards were beginning to look scared now. Neither Storm nor Ergluth were surprised when Broglan Sarmyn suddenly rose and leaned forward, fingertips on the table and face contemptuous. “Threatening nobles in their own home is hardly prudent—and never polite. If a man lies dead in a bedchamber, who better to ask how he got there than the occupant of that room? Boldshield, the outlander among us is one of the folk we wizards of war are taught to beware—one of the bringers of trouble we’re charged with keeping the realm clear of. If anyone is to answer questions about murders, let it be her!”

Silence was his only reply. He turned to glare at the Purple Dragon commander. “To answer your question: I saw Thalance rise and leave, not long ago, and have no trace of an idea as to his whereabouts now. But I have a question for you: was there a Harper pin on or beside the Seneschal’s body?”

“There was not, Sir Broglan of Sevensash,” Ergluth replied curtly, his eyes more like the keen gaze of an eagle than ever, “and what if there had been? I know of over two hundred Harpers who’ve perished in Cormyr in the past decade … yes, in this ‘safe,’ loyal, law-abiding realm.” He put one of his great battered hands down on the back of Shayna’s chair, seeming not to notice her staring wide-eyed up at him, and leaned forward to fix the leader of the war wizards with a gaze that had grown dark and stony.