Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

“My horse waits at the Old Skull, Lady,” said the Harper said.

Storm sighed again, and it seemed for a moment that a shadow of weariness and despair crossed her face as she looked at Syluné. When she spoke, however, she sounded almost petulant. “Well, I’ll have to go … though I was hoping to see what Flamerule looks like at my farm, for once.”

“I’ll watch over things here,” Syluné told her, her head becoming spectral and sinking into her body. Vrespon turned in time to see it vanish, and stared, fascinated, as the slumped body raised its head, the whites of its eyes rolled up to reveal pupils—and winked at him.

The Harper jumped again. “Gods!” he swore. “Don’t do that!”

Storm’s deeply bubbling laughter rolled out from behind him, then, and Vrespon thought it was quite the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

The coach rumbled to a stop. Purple Dragons exchanged brief words, and then they were jolted into rumbling motion again. The clatter of the wheels roared back brief echoes as they passed through the clammy dimness of the gate tower, and into a cobbled courtyard beyond.

“Gods above!” one of the men in the back said. “Couldn’t we have flown? My tail bone!”

“Belt up,” one of his companions advised. “At least you have a seat with cushions.”

“Now I know why messengers ride,” a third muttered, “even into driving rain.…”

“I could have levitated the coach,” a fourth man said haughtily, “and saved the horses, too—if I’d known things were going to be this bad. Unfortunately, I believed Runsigg when he said Cormyr had the best roads he’d ever walked on, and neglected to study that spell—”

“You belt up, too, Hundarr,” the third speaker said sourly. “Runsigg was right; you obviously don’t walk about much.”

“Huh! His belly tells you that, even before—”

“Climb out and pipe down, the lot of you,” an older voice growled. “You sound like a lot of wailing apprentices, not veteran wizards of war! Take a little pride in things, for the love of Laspeera!”

“Mother Laspeera provides all,” one of the wizards replied mockingly as they clambered out of the dark, swaying coach. A line of Purple Dragons was standing stiffly at attention. Beyond them stood another, shorter line of guards in a different livery: an arc of three golden stars on a field of deep blue. The Summerstar armsmen, no doubt.

“Lady Summerstar and Sir Boldshield,” Broglan Sarmyn was growling, “may I present to you the Sevensash investigative team, sent to you at the express command of Lady Laspeera of the wizards of war, on the instructions of the royal magician of the realm—upon consultations with His Majesty.”

“Sevensash?” the cold-eyed, imperious old noblewoman drawled. “I see only six men.”

She left a little silence, and turned to face Broglan, raising her eyebrows to bid him fill it. Gods, but she was beautiful. Beautiful like ice. Used to getting her own way in everything, this one, and dressed like the queen herself at a high court function, for all her sixty or more winters, and the minor—nay, unknown—stature of her house.

“We are, in fact, one member short, gracious lady,” Broglan said smoothly, “though the name bestowed on us does not, in fact, refer to our number.”

“And your missing man?” The bitingly bored tone made it clear that the Dowager Lady Summerstar cared not a whit for the fate of the absent wizard—only for how much she could make those present grovel and squirm.

“Ah—a woman, actually, lady, and at present engaged in giving birth.…”

“Congratulations,” the Lady Pheirauze Summerstar replied with a cold little smile. She turned away before Broglan could even begin to protest that he wasn’t the father.

Someone in the line of wizards snickered. Someone else was thinking that this old noblewoman was just perhaps a colder bitch than their absent colleague, Chalantra. Just perhaps.

They all watched the noblewoman walk away across the courtyard, her back as straight as a sword blade. The sway of her hips made more than one of her audience think again of her beauty, before Broglan turned briskly to the boldshield and said, “Ah—shall I present my mages to you, then?”

The solid, side-whiskered old Purple Dragon officer allowed just the slightest crook of a smile to creep onto one end of his mouth. “Suppose you do that, Sir Broglan. I know who you are, and you’d best know that I am Ergluth Rowanmantle, boldshield of the district of Northtrees March. I report directly to Baron Thomdor, warden of the Eastern Marches.”

The boldshield’s eagle-sharp eyes turned to look in the direction the old noblewoman had gone. “The lady you have all just—briefly—met is Lady Pheirauze, the matriarch of House Summerstar. The true family heir is her granddaughter, the Lady Shayna Summerstar, and the nominal head of the house is the other Dowager Lady Summerstar: mother to Shayna and daughter-in-law of Lady Pheirauze.”

“That’s Zarova Summerstar, is it not?” Broglan asked. “Who was born a Battlestar?”

The boldshield inclined his head in a nod. “That’s right. In the absence of an heir who’s been presented to the king, however, the master of this keep is its seneschal, whom you’ll meet shortly. I’ll leave him to introduce himself, but I’d best know your muster.”

“So you can put names to the bodies, if need be,” Broglan said, repeating the old joke.

The boldshield did not smile. “That’s right.”

The overwizard coughed, tried on an uneasy smile, and then growled, “Well, then: you see before you—in order, down our line—Hundarr of the Wolf winter noble house.” He looked to a tall, sharp-featured mage whose elegantly cut black hair was shot through with streaks of white. The mage inclined his head in a greeting every bit as haughty as the looks the Dowager Lady Summerstar had been dispensing.

“Lhansig Dlaerlin.” A short, burly man with a broad face and an easy smile sketched a flippant, one-handed salute, his eyes mocking. The boldshield’s level stare cut into those mocking eyes like two cold lance points, but made no change in their dark twinkling.

“Corathar Abaddarh.” This mage was young, thin-lipped, and wintry-eyed, so eager to impress that he practically quivered, like a dog leaping to be let off the leash. He’d struck a dramatic pose, of course—and, as he felt the boldshield’s eagle-eyed scrutiny fall upon him, he shifted rather self-consciously to another.

“Insprin Turnstone, recently transferred to us from Vangerdahast’s personal Enforcers.” An older wizard steadily met the boldshield’s gaze, and nodded, as one to an equal. His face was weather-beaten, his eyes were the color of dull steel, and his black hair—what little he still had—had almost all gone gray.

Ah, yes, Ergluth thought. A pair of eyes and ears for the royal magician, put into this group before its ambitious younglings took it right out of control. He returned the thin old man’s nod, almost smiling. He could tell that a similarly knowing, not-quite smile lurked just below Turnstone’s cheeks, too.

“Murndal Claeron.” He was a darkly handsome man with a close-trimmed mustache and the sort of beard that puts two little corners to the chin before slicing up to join the sideburns. He had glistening brown eyes and a half-smile. Trouble. As ambitious as a hungry snake, and probably possessed of the same tactics.

“And, of course, myself.” The boldshield swung his eyes back to Broglan Sarmyn. He was of average height and build. His hair was the hue of mud and going thin on top. It turned grizzled gray in his large but carefully trimmed sideburns, the man’s only touch of visible personal style. Permanent worry lines creased a high forehead, and a touch of grimness hovered about the mouth. His robes were a year or two behind high fashion.