According to palace protocol, the-still missing-royal magician and the lord warder could both give orders to the palace understeward; whereas, all other wizards of war, except in times of declared war, could not. Yet, it seemed Glathra called on custom and protocol when they suited her, and blithely ignored them when they did not.
Just as Understeward Fentable blithely ignored the six successive sets of orders she’d had messengers deliver to him. He’d taken care to inform the palace heralds that the Lady Glathra Barcantle had been declared a traitor to the Crown, so her orders were to be ignored. He’d omitted to mention that the declaration of her status was his alone, not a royal one, but the heralds had winked expressionlessly, informing him without a word that they were well aware of that. They knew he was carrying out this empty gesture to preempt Glathra’s inevitable move to declare him a traitor, the moment she discovered him missing and her orders not carried out.
However, even the lowliest Dragon on guard at court or palace would have found it odd that the palace understeward had departed the palace, at a time when his superior, Palace Steward Hallowdant, was abed and snoring.
It was even more unusual for Fentable to slip out alone, without grand pronouncements and orders, a messenger or three in case a need for them arose, a scribe to capture the most crucial-to-the-realm of his passing thoughts, and a bodyguard or two to emphasize his importance.
Manshoon would have sent him out naked and covered in dung, if it had suited his purposes.
However, on this occasion, it-and anything else that might attract attention-did not. He was riding Fentable forth to meet with certain nobles. Ostensibly to try to arrange a noble cabal to keep the peace and protect both the royal family and all Suzailan courtiers, in the event civil war broke out. In truth, Manshoon intended to use his magic to covertly read the minds of all nobles he got close enough to, to learn who could be used, and how. Fentable’s cabal would become Manshoon’s power base of allied nobles when he took the throne.
Moreover, there was a chance-admittedly small, but a chance nonetheless-that he might get close enough to the right noble to discover who controlled the blueflame ghost that had appeared at the Council.
It was also high time to begin spreading rumors that would cause public suspicion of the priests of all popular faiths in the kingdom. Thefts, murders, deceptions, baby-devourings… the lot. Priests were a peril to vampires, and he wanted them kept busy in his new empire or at least hampered by public resistance and suspicion, not free to work mischief or try to step into the present chaos and restore order, seizing power and influence for themselves in the process.
The most private way out of the palace that didn’t involve a damp tunnel and lots of stairs up into this or that tavern or shop along the Promenade was the house behind the stables. Fentable took that route but was barely a block from the palace when he saw an unmistakable wheezing, lurching figure hurrying toward him along the Promenade, casting many swift glances back over his shoulder.
Mirt of Waterdeep, making for… the palace?
And right behind him-Fentable came to an abrupt halt, almost before Manshoon felt astonished-were Marlin Stormserpent’s pair of blueflame ghosts, rushing along vengefully after the old Lord of Waterdeep.
Manshoon backed Fentable into a doorway to watch the slaughter.
El shook himself and waved his arms-Amarune’s slender, shapely young arms-in satisfaction. Gods, but it felt good inside a body this young, strong, and Mystra-kissed supple. Why “If you’re finished enjoying Rune’s general health, I’d like to remind you that it won’t continue if we tarry here,” Storm warned, plucking at his arm.
Obediently El joined her in a sprint down the narrow passage she was heading along. He recognized it; ahead was a door that led to an alcove that was a guardpost presiding over one of the smaller, less important palace doors.
“Why can’t matters be as tavern tales have them, for once?” he asked idly as they ran. “No guards at their posts-that sort of thing?”
Storm chuckled and banged open the door to the alcove.
Several startled Purple Dragons cursed and went for their swords, but she marched straight through them with the crisp words, “At ease, loyal Dragons! I’m Lady Glathra, testing a new spell with Wizard of War Tracegar here. If we both look like rather striking women, me with silver hair and him the very image of a certain mask dancer some of you may have seen a time or two, our spells are working. We’re off to the Dragon and the Lion, to test our guises on harsh critics.”
“I-uh-fair fortune, lady!” the highest-ranking Dragon said hastily, throwing wide the door just as Storm reached for it. She thanked him with a bright smile, stepped out into the night-and stopped, so suddenly that only Amarune’s grace and balance kept Elminster from walking right into her.
Mirt the Moneylender was coming down the Promenade, hustling hard and groaning for breath, making for their door just as fast as he could lurch. Behind him, Storm could see the reason for his haste.
Two blueflame ghosts were right on his heels, swords out, with unpleasant grins on their faces.
“A rescue!” Mirt gasped. “A rescue, stlarn it!”
“Of course,” Storm said, running to him and taking the winded lord by one shoulder. “Rune!”
Elminster took the Waterdhavian’s other arm, and they hustled him back through the door.
“Change of plan!” Storm barked at the frowning guards. “Fetch all the Crown mages you can find here, at once!”
They gaped at her.
“Now!” she roared, trying to sound just like Glathra. “Go! Run as you’ve never run before! Run!”
The guards ran-three of the youngest right away, the others as Storm gave them glares and finally let go of the panting old lord and advanced on them, snarling like an angry wolf.
“They’re right behind us,” El murmured, kicking the door shut and swinging Mirt around against the passage wall.
Storm sprang to bar the door. “I’m hoping Luse-”
Two blades burst through the door and bit into the door bar in her hands.
She tugged, even as the blueflame slayers pulled, freeing and withdrawing their swords. Storm hastily barred the door.
A moment later, the wards alongside it flared into sudden visibility, bulging and glowing as the ghosts sought to walk right through the thick stone palace wall.
“There’s no time to wait for Alusair,” Elminster growled. “If I go wild-witted, Stormy One…”
“Of course,” Storm replied, readying her blade.
The ward went blinding white, flared into wild, spitting lightning in front of Elminster, spat forth an angry shower of sparks-and a glowing blue sword burst through that radiance, its wielder right behind it.
Elminster smiled, sidestepped the sword, and gently said a spell right into the ghost’s face.
All sound went away in an instant, or so it seemed-but swirling dust and racing cracks across nearby plaster wall adornments told El he’d just been deafened. The ghost’s blue light winked out, leaving behind an immobile, blackened skeleton holding a sword, and the palace ward shrank away, retreating along the passage in both directions like two racing grassfires.
Only to roil in the distance momentarily-and come rushing back.
The blue flames rekindled, the motionless skeleton was once more a solid-looking man on the move-that the wards slammed into from both sides.
Whereupon Elminster’s sight went away, too. He was briefly aware of flying helplessly through the air, then encountering something smooth, flat, and very hard.
Only to rebound back off it, to walk forward blindly on legs that suddenly seemed made of rubber or perhaps of string…