Эд Гринвуд - Stormlight

Ergluth knew Broglan’s sort: a man uneasy in court society but decisive behind closed doors and out among the common folk. A good teacher who adopted the pose of the gruff, growling bear favored by so many swordcaptains of the Purple Dragons. A good man—principled, and with a love of the realm.

The others … well, more love of self and of mayhem than anything else, if he was any judge. A murderer loose in the keep, and we’re adding these?

The boldshield gave them all a grave smile, and said loudly, half-turning toward his own men and the other armsmen in the courtyard, “Be welcome in Firefall Keep. May your mission meet with success. His Majesty has every confidence in you, and so do we all. Do not hesitate to call upon me, or any of my men, should you require aid.” Then he turned fully to face the ranked guards, and barked, “Dismissed!”

The armsmen scattered like so many disturbed pigeons, clearing the cobbles in a whirl of weapons and trotting feet and jingling harnesses. The boldshield turned back to the wizards. “If you’d like, I’ll conduct you to your quarters, where you may ease the rigors of so long a coach journey. You can meet with the seneschal before evenfeast, if you prefer.”

“That would be acceptable,” Broglan said with a smile, and turned to the other mages. The look in his hazel-gray eyes was a clear and cold command to utter not one word more until they were alone; smart comments about bucketheads in armor or rude backwaters would be neither appreciated nor received without cold rewards.

The rooms were dark-paneled, gloomy, and cold, like those in many a castle. Still, they were probably quite opulent by the standards of this place. Pelts had been laid in profusion across the threadbare patches in the carpet, until the floor seemed a deep, yielding grassland under their boots. A row of doors led into private sleeping-chambers; Broglan raised his brows at this unexpected luxury, and made the silent gesture that bid the mages examine unknown territory for dangers. They curtly ordered the servants standing by their heaped baggage to begone, and began to roam about, peering under things and casting detection spells, listening here and sniffing there.

Not long afterward, they reassembled around Broglan. “Nothing,” Lhansig muttered.

“A passage behind that wall, not far off,” Hundarr said, pointing, “but probably not intended for … stealthy scrutiny.”

“Concealed servants’ door there,” Insprin said, “and an old dweomer—probably a warning magic mouth.”

Broglan nodded. “We won’t worry about that. Any other dweomers?”

Heads shook in silent negatives. Their leader sighed, and said, “I’m sure you noticed the baths, and after Insprin and I are done, you can all enjoy them in order of age. Next time, we’ll reverse the order. No griping—they seem plenty hot right now.” He reached for his belt, and said, “Choose your rooms; they all seem the same. Now, Murndal—tell me in brief what should interest us most about this mission.”

Every inch the careful pupil, the handsome Claeron stroked one arm of his maroon silk overrobe, and said, “We have two murders, and reports from presumably competent priests that the bodies can’t be raised, spoken with, or magically read in any way. They seem burned out from within, and utterly dead and lost to magic—worse than stones, which can at least be made to tell us something. Whoever did it, we want to find out how … or Cormyr, and Faerûn in general, may have far larger dooms upon them than merely two killings.”

Broglan nodded in satisfaction, his face momentarily losing a little of its worried look. “I could not have put it any better. The manner of death is exactly our prime concern—though we should not, of course, admit that to anyone. Officially, we are here because the security of the realm demands that the death of any noble be investigated—and the violent death of any heir brings wizards of war to the scene.

“Please bear in mind that the dowager lady we met in the courtyard is precisely the type to go running to the king with complaints no matter what happens. Let’s not be stupid enough, or allow ourselves to be goaded far enough, to give her anything reasonable to complain about. Let her make herself ridiculous. Don’t give her any chance to make us look the fools.”

He tossed his belt to the floor and undid the sash to let his overrobe fall open. “Now, the baths await. See to your rooms and baggage—and gentlesirs all, let us be very clear: this situation could hold peril, so I’ll tolerate no pranks. Save your nasty magics for other folk, not your fellow mages.”

Without another word, Broglan strode to the bath chamber. Insprin followed, and they heard the metal lids clatter up as the two older mages uncovered the heated baths.

With one accord the four younger war wizards turned to the heap of baggage and started pulling and tossing satchels and crates aside.

“So, laddies—pleased to be here?” Lhansig cooed in mimicry of a gushing matron, batting his eyebrows.

“Thanks to Mother Laspeera,” Corathar said savagely, “I’ll have to miss the Six Harpists concert, just to cool my heels in this backwater. Thank you, Mother Inthré!”

Murndal smiled. “I remember when she still called herself Laspeera Naerinth, before she married her mysterious man.”

“Oh, yes. Do we still know nothing about him?”

“Well, he keeps to her quarters all the time—and I do mean all the time—cloaked and masked. The mask, they say, changes his features constantly, so that none know what he truly looks like. He can cast spells, but wears a blade. Some say he’s a Harper, some—”

“I know, I know,” Hundarr broke in sarcastically. “Some say he’s a Red Wizard, some a Zhentarim, some a Halruaan outcast, and a few are even proposing he’s a lich from long-lost Netheril. They say such things about every recluse in this land who knows a few light spells!”

Murndal sighed. “Yes, but this one does spend time scrying and working on spells. I’ve seen glimpses of the first and smelled and heard the less successful forays of the second. He’s a powerful mage, all right, but he can’t be a lich! Can you see Laspeera going to bed with a dead man? Or some sort of well-spoken, magically adept monster? I don’t think so!”

“We’re not here to think, ” Corathar said sharply. “That’s the problem. We’re always sent to places to look impressive and scare the chitlins out of folk, so they’ll think—think twice, that is, about doing naughty things ever again.”

“Well, I think we look very impressive,” Lhansig joked, turning a cartwheel. “By the gods—you were all upside down, for just an instant there! How do you mages do that?”

Hundarr rolled his eyes. “Must you?” He turned to one of the doors. “If you must play such tricks, turn a few of those cartwheels in your bath—and call us in to watch, first!”

“One of these days Lhansig’ll trip over his own tongue,” Murndal murmured. “I wonder if we’ll all be there to watch then?”

The wine and the roast boar had both been good, very good. They almost made up for having to listen to the barbs of the old Dowager Lady Daggertongue.

Lhansig chuckled and shook his head as he strode to the jakes—they probably called it a garderobe here, just to seem more sophisticated. It was the same brittle, empty way that Hundarr strove to be sophisticated. Lhansig rolled his eyes and hummed “I’ve Always Been A Lady Fair” as he shouldered his way through the door.

A single lamp was guttering, and the place wasn’t any too well lit. The sea-serpent-mawed bowl he was seeking ought to be around here … yes. He contentedly fumbled with the laces of his codpiece—and so never saw the hand that drove his head forward against the wall, hard.