They were to free Lady Dawningdown’s son and heir from Irlingstar, and get him safely over the border into Sembia. Officially, fire-tempered young Jeresson Dawningdown had been cast into Irlingstar for murdering a man, and ordering a hiresword to slay two more he’d quarreled with over cards, slayings that had been swiftly accomplished. However, all Cormyr knew Jeresson “the Rager” had really been confined in Irlingstar because he’d joined a cabal of young nobles plotting with Sembian sponsors to murder the entire royal family and put a Sembian on the throne of the Forest Kingdom.
Jeresson was to be delivered safely to Bowshotgard, a hunting lodge in forested northern Sembia, where Danger For Hire would receive the rest of their gold.
“And a handy waiting grave, I’ll warrant,” Hawkspike grunted gloomily.
He watched Harbrand get up and thrust the sack of coins into their usual hidey-hole in the side of the privy chute, and he spat on the floor again.
“Nobles,” he growled. “I hate working for nobles. Trouble, always trouble.”
Harbrand flashed a mirthless smile. “Goes with the gold. Coin, always coin. That’s what makes them noble.”
“Oh? Not birth? Not good breeding?”
Harbrand snorted. “Have you ever noticed any hint or shred of good breeding on the part of the nobles of this land?”
He let silence fall, then snorted again. “Thought not.”
“What puzzles us most,” Ganrahast said slowly, “is this ‘Lady of Ghosts’ who pursued all of you through the Dalestride Portal. Just who-hrast it, what-was she?”
Storm grimaced. “A mistake shared by Elminster and Manshoon. Her name is, or was, Cymmarra. Long ago, she was Manshoon’s lover and apprentice-as were her mother and two older sisters. Eventually, tiring of those three and wanting to be rid of them, the Lord of the Zhentarim sent them to kill Elminster. They failed, of course. Cymmarra alone he held back from that mission, but forced her to watch the deaths of her kin. Wild with grief and rage, she attacked Manshoon. He bested her easily with his spells, manacling her with magic, and forced himself upon her one last time-as he sought to slay her with a dagger thrust. You saw that blade, thrusting out of her, as she strode through the palace.”
“Elminster’s mistake was protecting her but not defending her,” Ganrahast guessed.
Storm nodded soberly. “Manshoon couldn’t kill her, and didn’t-then-know why. She escaped, and for centuries hid from him in various guises, building her skills in the Art, awaiting the right time to take revenge on both El and Manshoon. She thought it had arrived.” Storm shrugged. “She was almost correct.”
“Almost,” Glathra echoed bitterly, shaking her head. “Is Elminster’s life one long succession of such cruelties and misjudgments?”
Storm gave her a calm look that was somehow more a challenge than any glare could have been. “Yes. As are the lives of Manshoon, and Vangerdahast, and any wizard who seeks to rule, or dominate, or defend a throne. As you may yet live long enough to have to admit, Glathra Barcantle.”
Glathra flashed a glare. “I need no lessons-”
Catching the stern eyes of her king, she stopped in mid-snap, and asked more gently, “So are we rid of your meddlings at court and among our nobles, now? Or have you still unfinished work here in Cormyr?”
Storm’s smile was friendly. “We do, so you’re not rid of us yet. Forgive me, Foril, but Mystra commands us in this. She sees the wizards of war as vital to a bright future for all the Realms. Wherefore the corrupt among them-and in the ranks of your courtiers, too-must be uncovered and scoured out. Without causing too much of an uproar amid all the nobles seeking power, who will of course sense weakness and division, and rush to exploit it.”
Instead of uproar and anger among the three guests, there was a silent exchange of meaningful glances.
“Good,” the king said heavily, lifting a hand to forestall anything Ganrahast or Glathra might have said. “Not a moment too soon. Let that scouring begin.”
He looked at Arclath. “With Lord Elminster and Lady Storm serving a higher authority than the Dragon Throne, I find myself still in need of a champion whose loyalty is to me. A personal agent, an untitled hand of my royal will who’s no highknight, and who stands alone. Arclath Delcastle, will you-”
“I will,” Arclath said flatly. “I’ll be your agent, Majesty.”
“The work will be dangerous,” the king warned.
“That is my expectation,” Arclath replied, in identically grave tones. That earned him a genuine royal smile.
Amarune caught the king’s eye. “You are not keeping me out of this,” she announced firmly. “Where Arclath goes, I go.”
King Foril smiled again. “Of course. I was, as it happens, intending to hire you into my service, to be Lord Delcastle’s Crown liaison. At, ah, four hundred lions a month?”
Amarune blinked in astonishment. Across the table, Lady Marantine hid a smile rather unsuccessfully, but beside the king, Glathra frowned, stirred as if to say something, caught another swift royal look-and kept silent.
Rune found herself swallowing, her mouth suddenly dry. She bowed her head. “Majesty, I accept. I hope you’re not-we’re both not-making a mistake, but I will take your service.
Gladly.”
“Good,” the king replied firmly, parting his nightcloak. Unclasping a massive money belt from around his waist, he set it on the table, and gave the Royal Magician a glance.
Wordlessly Ganrahast divested himself of no less than seven such belts, one after another. As they clanked down in front of Amarune, the king told her, “Fifty lions per belt; your first month’s pay. Can you start work immediately?”
“Y-yes, Your Majesty,” the overwhelmed tavern dancer managed to reply.
“Good. Go straight to bed and get a proper sleep. By highsun tomorrow, I need you both well on the way to Castle Irlingstar, on our eastern border. Our worst problem just now, it seems, is there. Sembia-or someone reaching out of Sembia-has decided to take advantage of the current tumult among the nobility to take over that fortress and free the worst malcontents imprisoned there to work treason against Cormyr. I need that attempt stopped. I’m reinforcing the wizards of war there, too, but find myself in need of loyal, capable hands inside that keep that aren’t attached to a Crown mage all nobles mistrust and are guarded against on sight.”
Arclath frowned. “Hmm. I know some of the nobles you’ve-ahem, that have decided to dwell there. There may be deaths.”
“Yes,” the king agreed, meeting his gaze directly. “Unfortunate, but these things happen when a young noble newly sent to Irlingstar due to the displeasure of the Crown rubs up against old rivals and other hotheads, in a confined and remote keep.”
“Ah,” Arclath replied gravely. “I see.”
The Dragon of Cormyr reached within his nightcloak again, and set two tiny metal flasks on the table in front of Arclath and Amarune. “Sovereign remedy. Effective against most known poisons. Given what some nobles are said to dip their daggers in, you may, I fear, have need of it.”
“Foril,” Lady Delcastle spoke up, sounding less than pleased, “it seems to me you intend to stain House Delcastle’s good name. We’ll suffer the disgrace of a public accusation of treason against my son and heir. No, more than accusation-confinement. And as a traitor to the Crown. This annoys me.”
King Foril bowed to her. “Lady, I’m afraid this will be so. Pray accept my apologies. I might point out that given the current mood in Cormyr, the esteem of the Delcastles in the eyes of the populace-the nobility and those who aspire to nobility, at least-will undoubtedly rise. Moreover, I promise to apologize publicly and profusely, later, for the mistaken injustice I enacted upon your son, when I was led astray by the lying testimony of false nobles. I’ll make amends by giving him a Crown office, too-title, salary, a coach and riding horses; the usual.”