Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

“But Thalance hasn’t the brains to—”

“Oh?” Insprin put in. “And just how do we know that? We’ve seen him twice, mayhap thrice. By all accounts he’s seen every chambermaid and unattached lady in the vale. That may be the work of a fool, but it requires no small amount of cunning.”

“None of the Summerstars need to be cunning,” Broglan reminded them, “when they’ve got the Lady Pheirauze to do it for them.”

“Yes,” Murndal said thoughtfully. “I could just picture them all running to and fro at her bidding.…”

“So what are you saying Pheirauze gains by slaying her own grandson?” Hundarr Wolf winter broke in. His sharp tone made it clear that he’d heard enough commoners criticizing the ethics of a noble house.

“A lot more power around here, for one thing,” Insprin said gravely. “Where Athlan would be expected to rule his house his own way, youthful mistakes and all, Shayna will be expected to take advice from her elders … particularly in matters of marriage.”

“And what would you know of the expectations at court?” Hundarr asked coldly.

“All too much, I fear,” the thin, gray-haired old mage calmly replied, ignoring the bait.

Broglan turned. “Enough, Hundarr! Even we lowborn men have eyes and ears and brains! I’ve seen no sign that either Lord Vangerdahast or the king are stupid enough to divide the citizens of Cormyr into but two groups: cultured, clear-thinking, loyal nobles and howling-dog, brutish, dangerous commoners. I hope you won’t make that mistake either. Too many proud families of Cormyr are extinct today because of it.”

Hundarr Wolfwinter stared back at him silently, a clear challenge in his eyes. Neither man moved or spoke for a long minute. Then Broglan shrugged, turned away, and said, “The fact remains that Murndal has asked a good question—what is our course, in the hours and days ahead?”

“Watch and wait,” Insprin said flatly, “with eyes open and battle spells ready, to see what Storm Silverhand stirs up as she roams through the keep.”

Broglan nodded. “That’s exactly the road I’ve been following,” he admitted. “If we spend our days interviewing servants and scrying at their thoughts to ferret out murderers who I doubt are lurking in their ranks, our distinguished lady bard will be scouring the Haunted Tower and poking about in the private wardrobes of Lady Pheirauze before long.”

Broglan leaned forward and said to Murndal, “I’ve got a little task for you.”

“Me?” Murndal asked, more surprised than suspicious.

“I gave you the only cloak of concealment I brought, to keep the spellblade hidden until you were ready to use it,” the leader of the war wizards explained. “It’s bonded to you now.”

“And so?” Murndal asked warily.

“You saw how upset the vision of the seneschal’s slayer—if that’s who it was—made the lady bard? She left the crypt in such haste that no priest was called to reseal the doors.”

Murndal nodded slowly. “You want me to go there and cast an unsleeping guardian to see if anyone enters or leaves.”

Broglan inclined his head in a nod so slight that it seemed for a moment to be no nod at all. His hand dipped into the breast of his robe. “I also want you to leave this there.”

Murndal studied the silvery metal wand. It was tipped with an emerald and sprouted sharp metal fins, collars, and rune-inscribed horns. As he watched, it pulsed slightly, as if a deep-buried power were awakening in it. He lifted his eyes hastily from its rising glow. “What is it?”

“A decoy, of course. It has no powers save the ability to be traced by us at a distance—and to be violently destroyed by Insprin or myself, at a somewhat closer proximity.”

“So if our murderer—or anyone else—snatches it from the tomb, we can follow, and visit an explosion into the very hands that would try to use the thing against us.”

Broglan nodded.

Murndal looked around the circle of curious, watching faces, broke into a sudden grin. “I’ll do it.” He rose. “Now?”

“ ’Twould be best,” his superior told him. “The sooner this lies in the tomb—on the table, perhaps, or ‘fallen’ beside it—the faster we can ensnare Lhansig’s slayer.”

Murndal strode to his chamber. Shrugging himself into the cloak, he asked with a frown, “The guards?”

“With that cloak, a minor problem,” Broglan replied. “I’m about to send everyone on short missions at once, to give our patient Purple Dragons something to watch.”

The war wizards grew matching grins of anticipation. With a smile that was almost a purr, Broglan said, “Corathar and Hundarr, go to the old steward of the hall to borrow two of his tall braziers; don’t press him if he refuses. Insprin, there’s something vital—and for the time being, very secret—that you have to hunt down in the keep library … or perhaps in the seneschal’s papers. I’ll be needing at least one of those doorguards to go and get the boldshield for me—and the other to take custody of this execrable liqueur for me; it seems to bear some enchantment or other that’s interfering with our work. Murndal, stand behind me and awaken the cloak.”

He waved at them to get gone. With nods and grins, they obeyed. The leader of the war wizards turned and held out his hand to the globe above the table, giving it a steady glare. Under his scrutiny, it began to flash and pulse, sending strange shadows leaping around the room. They almost entirely obscured the faint shimmering in the air right in front of him—Murndal in the cloak.

Broglan nodded in satisfaction and turned to the door. “Mystra and Tymora both be with us now,” he muttered, and laid a hand on the bar that kept non-wizards out.

So it was that Murndal Claeron slipped out of the room quite unseen, and down the only hall that wasn’t rapidly filling up with wary Purple Dragons. Curse that boldshield! He’d foreseen something like this, and posted what looked like at least three armsmen for each of the guest mages. It also seemed that, for the time being, he’d taken on the seneschal’s crown-appointed duties, and would be resident in the keep until the killings were solved.

Murndal stifled a heartfelt oath and hurried away from the jostling and chatter, hoping no narrowed eyes would notice the slight shimmering the cloak trailed in its wake. He was around the first dogleg corner and into deeper dimness ere he realized that this hall led into the Haunted Tower. He paused for a moment, looking back and then ahead—and then shrugged. What could a few phantoms do, after all? And with that open stair at the center, he could get to the crypt quickly indeed. After that, the kitchens awaited. That repast had been marvelous , and surely there must be some left …

The lady in the long gown looked back over her shoulder, opened her mouth in a soundless scream, snatched up her trailing skirts, and ran on, fading away in midfrantic stride.

“Haunted Tower, indeed,” a voice said disgustedly. “ That’s not going to keep anyone away.” Two hands lifted to work magic.

The spell was newly gained, and so the casting, as always, was just a trifle awkward—but there were no charging adventurers or other foes to make haste necessary.

Soon enough, the blue mists were swirling. Out of them, with a cold rattle of laughter, came the first of the skulls. With eyes of flame, it winked at its creator, and swooped off to the right as it was bid. The watcher smiled grimly as it plunged back into the mists, and made the fog drift into a ring around him.

When the watcher was surrounded with a roiling barrier, he began to pace. No curious armsman or mage was likely to pass screaming skulls and mists that flickered with lightning. And this haunting, however harmless, would last until all the magic was drained from the enspelled daggers that the Summerstar fools had seen fit to inter with their fallen. To leave such things to rust away in a crypt! Truly, nobles were mad!