The groom, Lord Frefford Wyvernspur, towed along by his new bride, sparkled almost as brilliantly, dressed in the green and gold of his family, the Wyvernspurs of Immersea.
The wedding was the social event of the season and, in a spirit of festive goodwill, the imported nobility bumped elbows against the local hoi polloi. His Majesty, Azoun IV, remained in court in Suzail on the advice of the court wizard, Vangerdahast. However, a number of lesser Cormyrian lords and ladies were present to benefit from meetings and conversations with the heads of rising Suzail merchant households and local freeman leaders.
Alias caught a glimpse of swirling crimson and white on the far side of the tent. Akabar’s head poked above the press of shorter Cormyrians. Tired of being a stranger among so many, she decided that even the foreigner’s company would be preferable to standing alone. Elbowing her way through the crowd, she caught fragments of conversation.
“Well, if you ask me,” said one bass voice, “they should have had a cleric of Ilmater there. God of endurance, suffering, and perseverance.”
Alias gave a derisive snort. Considering the confusion caused by having four clerics at the marriage ceremony, a fifth might just have helped start a jihad. The swordswoman recalled the moment when both the bishop of Chauntea and the patron of Oghma stepped forward at the same time to offer the blessing. For seven heartbeats the priest and priestess stood, staring stonily at each other until the male bishop bowed deeply and surrendered the floor.
“If you must know,” a disconnected whisper confided, “we dressed in blackface and wrote filthy slogans on the side of the citadel. Horrible, horrible things about Princess Tanalasta and a centaur.”
A strong political statement, Alias thought sarcastically.
“Go ahead, Giogi,” a slurred female voice encouraged some unseen gentleman. “Do your impression of His Majesty. Giogi does the most on-target imitation, you can just close your eyes and picture the old stuffed codger. You know that line he always uses, ‘Let me state, O people of Cormyr, my people.’ Everyone says that even Azoun himself would do a double take. Pleeease, Giogi.”
Yes, please, Giogi, the swordswoman begged silently. Anything to keep the woman from whining.
“No, you’re quite wrong,” a gravelly male voice replied in a different conversation. “The problems in the Moonshaes are completely local. The rise of their goddess has nothing to do with the tenets of Chauntea’s faith.”
Alias shook her head incredulously at the speaker’s arrogant assurance. As a traveled adventurer she knew better. No problem was ever completely local; problems rippled through the Realms from shore to shore. Now where did I hear that line before? she wondered.
“Lady Alias?” a familiar voice addressed her. “I trust you’re having a fine time?”
Alias turned and blinked twice to accustom her eyes to the shadowed side of the tent. Dimswart stood, his comrade-in-ale, the priest Winefiddle, right behind. Each held a foaming mug of beer.
“Yes, yes I am,” Alias replied politely, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “I was just trying to cross the room, but it’s like wading through soft sand.” She could not meet the eyes of the cleric. In addition to trying to kill him, she had also cheated his church of his fee.
But Winefiddle smiled absently at her, and the sage nodded in blank agreement. Their faces were both more flushed than the heat in the tent warranted, and they swayed from side to side, bumping into each other.
Giving her elbow a little fatherly squeeze, Dimswart bellowed over the noise, “We’ll talk about your little problem just as soon as Leona and I get the children off. That way I’ll get out of the clean-up.” He laughed, and some of the ale sloshed from his mug. “Have you eaten? Had a mug?”
Alias shook her head, and Winefiddle pressed his flagon into her hands. “Hardly touched,” he slurred.
Alias smiled nervously and, not wishing to give the curate any further cause for offense, took a swig. The ale was as vile as The Hidden Lady’s.
“No more, thanks,” Alias said, passing the mug back to Winefiddle. “I think I’d better keep keep my wits about me.”
The curate shrugged and took a long, hearty draught. Alias excused herself and plunged back into the crowd in the direction she’d last seen Akabar’s head. She spotted Olive Ruskettle seated on a small bench in front of the wedding table, leaning low over her yarting as she tuned it so she could hear the strings over the noise of the crowd.
Alias’s attention was drawn away to Akabar, who was watching something with great amusement. Empty crystal cups rose and fell above the heads of the crowd in an ever increasing number. How odd. I would have thought jugglers too common for Lady Leona, Alias puzzled.
“Higher taxes will be the death of me,” complained a voice in the milling crowd.
“A lovely couple,” an elderly woman declared. “I wonder if he’s told her about his second cousin. The one who went quite mad and became an adventurer, you remember?”
“Oh, go ahead, Giogi,” wheedled the slurred female voice Alias recognized from earlier. “Just once. He really does sound just like King Azoun.”
Finally, Alias squeezed between the multi-hued bodies and stood beside Akabar. Upon spying the juggler though, she growled with annoyance. Dragonbait lay on the ground dressed in fool’s motley, tossing and catching seven pieces of Lady Leona’s crystal with all four feet and his tail. Akabar was just tossing an eighth cup into the fray.
The clear hemisphere landed in the lizard’s right front claw and scribed a complicated journey behind its mates from right front to left rear to right rear to left front to tail, and finally bounced up in a high arc by the tail to land again in the right front claw. Already an admiring crowd had gathered, allowing the lizard more open space in the mob than anyone else had received.
“What’s he doing here?” Alias hissed to Akabar.
“It’s called juggling. Don’t you have that in the north?” The mage grinned as he added a cup to the bobbing glassware.
“I can see that,” Alias replied, beginning to lose her patience. “Why?”
Akabar shrugged. “Some northern women assumed he was a pet and began tossing him food. In their excitement, they began bombarding him, actually. Rather than appear impolite he began juggling what he couldn’t eat. I thought it would be easier and cleaner to toss cups than fruit salad.”
“But he’s not supposed to be here,” Alias insisted through clenched teeth. “I told him to stay in my room.”
Suddenly, Lady Leona broke through the crowd, and the party-goers went deathly quiet. The noisiest members of the group turned away hastily to engage themselves in the more civilized pastime of conversation.
The mother of the bride gave a polite but firm cough, such as a god might make on the last day’s dawning. Dragonbait lost his concentration, and eight cups tumbled to the grass. The ninth cup bounced off his nose, and he looked up sheepishly at Lady Leona.
Dimswart’s wife glared at Alias. “If you are quite through with your pet, I would like to signal for the professional entertainment to begin.”
“He’s not my …” began Alias, but Lady Leona swirled about and headed for the wedding party’s table. The crowd parted for her as a rank of archers breaks at the arrival of a formation of lancers.
Alias hustled the lizard to his feet. “Where did you get that ridiculous getup?” she asked, tugging on the silk motley.
Dragonbait smiled and spun about so she could see the whole outfit. Little bells attached to the costume jangled.
Alias sighed. “Pick up the cups,” she ordered, pointing to the crystal on the ground.
With exaggerated care the lizard obeyed, stacking the glittering hemispheres on the table with the punch bowl.