Storm cared not; she was too busy intently watching two Purple Dragons carrying a limp, senseless Amarune Whitewave off in the direction of the Long Passage, with a self-important young war wizard preening in their wake.
“Can you proceed very, very quietly from here on?” she whispered over her shoulder.
“I believe so,” Mirt growled amiably, not much louder than a husky whisper.
Storm nodded and stalked forward in utter silence.
He followed, just a trifle more noisily.
Which meant the two curtly dismissed Dragons, returning to their posts in Loyal Maid’s Hall with mingled regret and resentment, didn’t hear either of them.
Storm hoped that the door she chose to bypass the guards and reach the Long Passage unnoticed would lead to a deserted chamber.
She and her wheezing shadow reached one door of what she knew was a war wizards’ dutychamber, in time to hear a faint rattle of chain.
Unashamedly, she put her ear to that door.
“They didn’t find any weapons,” a nasal young voice mused, “but I stopped their search, didn’t I? Which means it’s only prudent, before I awaken this intruder, to search her myself. Now how does this undo, I wonder?”
Storm turned, met Mirt’s questioning gaze, and moved back to where she could whisper into his ear. “Go along the passage to the other side of this room, and very noisily bang open its far door. Take care to keep behind the door, in case he casts a spell.”
Mirt grinned, nodded, and lurched off to obey.
The moment she heard that far door bang, Storm wrenched open the door in front of her and launched herself at the back of the young wizard’s neck.
He heard her and was starting to turn But “starting” was more than a breath too late.
To the floor he went, struck senseless, keys rattling out of his hand.
Storm closed the door she’d come through, then went to the other door and looked out. There was no sign of Mirt. After peering up and down a deserted passage, she frowned, shrugged, and closed the door.
The young mage had a wand at his belt, a slender coin purse, and a knife so small and blunt it could only see practical use spreading pastes and jams. She took the wand, knowing the symbols painted at its ends; this end gave sleep, and that one awakened.
She touched Amarune with “that” end, then slid the lone ring from the wizard’s finger. By its design, it had to be one of the spell-reflecting bands Caladnei had enchanted, and betimes loaned to certain Harpers.
Donning it, Storm caught up the keys and freed Amarune. Ankles in a walking chain, wrists to a chain passed around her back, and a throat collar chained to a wall-ring with a length of links short enough to keep her standing-or she’d strangle. Such restraints might prove useful later, but she had no place to hide them and no quiet way to carry them, so she let them be.
“S-storm?” Rune asked quietly, staring around the room and feeling her throat. “What happened to me? One moment I was running, starting to lose my breath, and then-”
“This bright young wizard cast a spell of sleep on you,” Storm told her. “Which means time enough has passed-being as I’ve heard no great tumult in that direction-that Arclath must have got out of the palace without dispute or alarm, and clean away into the city.”
“Meaning?”
“There’s no use chasing him. We’ll seek him at Delcastle Manor later, but right now I’m hungry, and by the rumblings your innards have been making, you are, too. So, kitchens first. Then we’d best have a little talk with Lady Glathra, if we don’t want wizards chasing us every time we turn a corner in this palace.”
Rune opened her mouth to protest, then sighed and shut it again. She was hungry. And weary, too.
Once again, the wisest thing Amarune Whitewave could do was give in.
Thank the gods, the Sammartael woman had gone away again without daring the dimness of Sraunter’s back room-let alone the darkness of his cellar.
The alchemist was back at work in his shop, having slipped Crownrood a few sips of wine tainted with something harmless that had sent him to sleep. Manshoon, sitting alone on the alchemist’s best chair-which didn’t say much for the man’s taste in comfortable furniture-felt much better.
He would just have to be mindful from now on that he did have limits. No more than two minds at once, and only one if it was strong and hostile.
His scrying globes had all burst or faded while he’d been fighting to stay conscious, leaving the cellar very dark.
As he needed no light, he didn’t bother seeking any. Instead, he worked a spell to reach out to the mind of Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake.
And waited, sitting in the darkness, a very long time as surprise gave way to irritation, then anger… and then resignation.
His spell had failed.
Mreldrake was well shielded, dead, or his own newfound limitations were greater than he’d thought.
Manshoon cast the spell again, this time seeking the mind of Lady Highknight Targrael.
Again, a long time later, he was forced to admit failure.
Future emperor or not, he had limitations, all right. Which meant he should behave accordingly.
Time to think again as a mortal, living man. Wary, prepared for battle, and hunted by alert foes.
His beholders would be better scattered. One death tyrant and a beholderkin hidden-separately-in the palace, another pair in Sraunter’s attic, and the rest elsewhere, in some more defensible stronghold than this shop…
Was it time to reawaken Talane? Probably, but given the happy reign of chaos at the palace, he had to know what was going on there. So, Fentable first…
“There’s always soup, hot biscuits, garlic butter, and sausages in the end kitchen,” Storm explained, “for servants who must eat at full scurry. These covered tankards aren’t for ale; they’re for soup.”
“I’ll try to bear that in mind,” Amarune replied, feeling full and much better for it, “the next time I storm the palace.”
Storm chuckled as she went to a small, worn old door at the end of the room.
Rune sighed. “Whither now?”
“A particular pantry.”
“Where the rarest dragon meat’s curing?”
“No, it’s all crocks of jam and pickles.”
“Then why-?”
“It has a loose stone.”
“I… see.” Then a thought struck Rune. “A stone Harpers know about?”
“Precisely.”
Evening was coming down outside as they hastened past a small window into a maze of passages and pantry doors. Storm seemed to know where she was going, and soon enough snatched a glowstone from its wire rack, flung open a nearby door, and stepped into a dark, low-ceilinged room crammed with large crocks and smelling faintly of brine.
“It’s been threescore summers since I last set foot in here,” she murmured.
“Oh, surely not,” Rune began, but her words faltered when the silver-haired woman turned eyes as old as kingdoms on her.
“It wasn’t until I went into the inner kitchen, just now, that I remembered this place,” Storm said. And sighed. “El has the same problem. Doors open in our minds unexpectedly-doors we often didn’t know were there. Sometimes what’s revealed is neither safe nor comfortable, and we rarely have time to deal with it properly, no matter what it is.” She smiled crookedly. “As my sister still says from time to time, at least it’s never dull, being mad.”
Amarune stared at her, not knowing what to say.
Storm gave her a wink and turned to a particular fat crock on the floor, under a shelf. Moving it out into the room, she pushed on one end of a stone that had been beneath it. The stone shifted a trifle, and she thrust a finger into the revealed crevice and flipped the stone up into her hand. The recess under the stone was small, and she drew out something that looked like a scrap of chainmail. A purse?
“What’s that?” Rune asked.
Storm put a finger to her lips for silence, replaced stone and crock, then fished inside the chainmail for something and held it out to Rune.
It was a plain iron finger ring.
“Put this on.”
“It’s magical?”
“Yes. Ironguard. Doesn’t affect any metal you carry, but unenchanted metal coming at you goes right through you as if you’re made of smoke. There are four other rings just like it in this-which is a paralyzing glove that I don’t think works, anymore. All of these are old Harper items the Crown mages won’t readily be able to trace. Tell no one about this.”
“And I’ll be needing this why, exactly?”
Storm gave Rune a sad look. “I rather think, Amarune, that we’re going to war.”