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.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sir Winter shook his head.
“A few lords have traveled the streets from club to club, or from lodgings or their city mansions to various eateries,” he replied, “ringed by well-armed bodyguards, of course. But as for pitched battles in the streets, or signs of armed men gathering anywhere for an assault-nothing. None at all. Thus far, at least. We remain watchful.”
Glathra pursed her lips. “Perhaps the lords of this land are more sensible than I judged them to be,” she muttered.
She nodded a farewell to Winter, who returned her nod and hurried away. A steady stream of reports was reaching his office, and it would be tragic to miss something crucial because he was busy relaying “no troubles at all” to a demanding wizard of war.
“Thornatar?” she barked.
“Here, Lady Glathra. We’ve restored order in the palace. The wounded nobility have all been tended, questioned, and removed to their own lodgings. Three listening spells cast on them have abruptly been ended, we presume by hired mages, but the rest remain in force and have thus far turned up nothing of interest.”
“Good. I am particularly interested in anything involving Lords Emmarask and Halvaeron. If even the slightest possibly useful or cryptic utterance is heard, my ears are to be apprised of it without delay, no matter the time or circumstances.”
“As you decree,” Thornatar replied, bowing as low as if Glathra had been an Obarskyr.
She grimaced, shook her head, and turned to look for Menziphur, the court alchemist. The man could creep around as silently as a spider! Where, by all the Her eyes fell on two faces in the crowd patiently standing around her-faces that should not have been there.
Storm Silverhand and the young mask dancer, Amarune Whitewave.
Biting back a curse, she snapped, “And what are the two of you doing here?”
“Well met, Glathra,” Storm said dryly. “We’d like to meet with King Foril Obarskyr. Soon, if that’s at all possible.”
Glathra stared at her, guilt and rage rising in her with almost choking speed, emotions she’d thought she was done with, and-and “Absolutely not,” she heard herself snap. “Your powers, Storm, are no doubt exaggerated by legend, yet remain mysterious. I could be dooming His Majesty by letting you within two rooms of him, for all I know. As for mask dancers, King Foril’s standards have always been rather higher than that-and though she’s young and there’s but one of her, she’s a mystery, too. For all I know she could be full of poison and sent to work regicide by foes of the Obarskyrs.”
The courtiers, Dragons, and war wizards around her were silently bristling, all now facing Storm and the dancer-and drawing back from them.
Glathra went on, wanting them all to hear her every word, so they’d know to watch over these two when she wasn’t around to give them direct orders.
“Nor are there just the two of you, whatever your protests to the contrary,” she said. “Princess Alusair, Vangerdahast, and Elminster walk with you, whether we can see them or not.”
She raised her voice and pointed at Storm and Amarune dramatically. “I would consider it treason on my part even to let you get close to our king, when for all I know you’d promptly try to take over his wits somehow and rule Cormyr from the grave.”
The two women stood alone, now, in a circle of frowning, hard-staring men. Glathra gave them a triumphant smile.
“Tracegar? Nurennanthur? Wands out, and capture these two for me. Work no magic that can harm the rest of us, and slay them not, but short of that, do anything needful to take them dow-”
Sudden light flared out of empty air right in front of Glathra’s face, and from out of it a voice she knew cried, “Glathra? Lady Glathra! Lord Delcastle broke through our post here! We-our Dragons wounded him, but he cut a few of them, too!”
Glathra felt her temper start to slip, and ground her teeth. “And how is it, Harbrow,” she asked sharply, “that one lone noble is able to fight his way through a guardpost of eight Dragons and no fewer than five wizards of war, you among them? Answer me that!”
“Delcastle wasn’t alone, lady! The ghost of Alusair defended him and froze us all, one after another. She-we could not stand against her. She… stopped us from capturing him.”
“My Arclath!” Rune burst out. “Where is he? How badly did you hurt him?”
“Lady?” the distant war wizard asked, obviously puzzled at who was crying these questions at him.
“Thank you for your report, Harbrow,” Glathra told him firmly. “Defend your post until I order you to do otherwise, or else send relief.”
“Lady, I hear and obey,” came the reply before the light winked out.
Amarune strode toward Glathra. “Where is he?”
Glathra ignored her. “Tracegar!” the wizard of war snapped, turning away. “Deal with these two! The rest of you-”
Something slammed into her ankles, and Glathra toppled helplessly, letting out a startled shriek-a cry that ended abruptly as she lost her breath against unyielding flagstones. Hard fingers clawed their way along her-the mask dancer, who was A flash and a ringing sound rose into a second shriek, this one singingly magical, as Tracegar’s wand blast struck the invisible protection conferred by Glathra’s ward-ring and rebounded at him. Only for the spell to be turned back by his lesser ward, and die in a harmless cacophony as it reached Glathra again.
Almost snarling in fresh fury, Glathra Barcantle found her feet and spun to face the mask dancer.
Only to hurtle to the floor again, with even more bruising force.
Storm had tripped her! The bitch had got herself right behind Glathra, somehow, and was now grabbing at the dancer’s shoulder and hissing, “Come! Harbrow was guarding the Hall of Victories- this way!”
The dancer dashed down the indicated passage without hesitation, Storm right behind her.
“Intruders! Villains! Traitors!” Glathra shouted furiously, struggling to her feet with her hair all over her face and her temper in an utter shambles. “Halt! Halt and surrender! I forbid you to flee!”
Storm slowed and looked back. “Glathra,” she replied crisply, “I think you’d better get used to having your commands ignored by those you have no authority over-or should have no authority over. I see neither the royal magician here nor any Obarskyr, and as a noble of this kingdom for centuries, I recall that, except when obeying the direct orders of either royals or the royal magician, wizards of war have very little legal authority. You pretend to have the right to order everyone about, but that’s a very different matter. I, the Marchioness Immerdusk, defy you, disloyal servant!”
Glathra opened her mouth-and choked on more anger than she’d ever in her life felt before. All words failed her. Utterly.
When they returned, an incoherently snarling string of moments later, she spat a single “Bitch!” in the direction of the swirling silver hair dwindling down the passage, and hurled slumber at the two fleeing women.
Less than a breath later, her own magic got flung back at her, staggering Glathra for an instant as it lit up her ward.
The Silverhand woman could reflect spells back whence they’d come.