“To the duke, then,” Oliver said, and started off, but Luthien put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“Greensparrow’s dukes follow no law of God,” the young Bedwyr reminded him, suddenly wondering if the halfling’s reasoning was sound. “They care not for any chapel.”
“Ah, but the palace was built before Greensparrow,” the halfling replied without the slightest hesitation. “And the old princes, they did care. And so the finest rooms are near to the dome. Now, do you wish to sit here in the dark and discuss the design of the palace, or do you wish to be off, that we might see the truth of the place?”
Luthien was out of answers and out of questions, so he shrugged and followed Oliver to the room’s closed door, distinguishable only because they saw the light from the corridor coming through the keyhole.
That hole was about eye-level with the halfling, and he paused and peeked through, then boldly opened the door.
In the light, Luthien came to see that Princetown’s palace was as fabulous on the inside as on the outside. Huge tapestries, intricately woven and some with golden thread interlaced with their designs, covered the walls, and carved wooden pedestals lined the length of the corridor, each bearing artwork: busts of previous kings or heroes, or simple sculptures, or even gems and jewels encased in glass.
More than once, Luthien had to pull Oliver along forcibly, the halfling mesmerized by the sight of such treasures within easy grasp.
There was only one treasure that Luthien Bedwyr wanted to take from this palace.
Gradually, the companions neared the center of the palace. The hallways became more ornate, more decorated, the treasures greater and more closely packed together, giving credence to Oliver’s reasoning concerning the likely location of the duke. But so, too, did the light grow, with crystal chandeliers, a hundred candles burning in each, hanging from the ceiling every twenty paces along the corridor. Many doors were thrown wide, and all the side rooms lit; though it was very late by then, near to midnight, the palace was far from asleep. A commotion caught the pair, particularly Luthien, off guard; the young Bedwyr even considered turning around and hiding until later. But Oliver would hear none of that. They were inside now, and any delay could be dangerous for them and for Katerin.
“Besides,” Oliver added quietly, “we do not even know if the party will end. In Gascony, the lords and ladies are known to stay up all the night, every night.”
Luthien didn’t argue, just followed his diminutive companion into the party. Merchants and their prettily dressed ladies danced in the side rooms, often sweeping out into the hall to twirl through the next open door, joining yet another of the many parties. Even worse for Luthien and Oliver, Praetorian Guards seemed to be around every corner.
The halfling thought that they should walk openly, then, and pretend to be a part of it all; Luthien, realizing that even the magical crimson cape could not fully shield them from this growing mob, reluctantly agreed. He was well dressed, after all, especially with the fabulous cape shimmering over his shoulders, and Oliver always seemed to fit in. And so they half walked, half danced their way along the corridors. Oliver scooped two goblets of wine from the first cyclopian servant they passed who was bearing a full tray.
The atmosphere was more intoxicating than the wine, with music and excited chatter, promises of love from lecherous merchants to the many fawning ladies. Oliver seemed right at home, and that bothered Luthien, who preferred the open road. Still, as he became confident that their disguise, or lack of one, was acceptable in this company, particularly with Oliver’s foppish clothing and his own magnificent cape, Luthien grew more at ease, even managed a smile as he caught in his arms one young lady who stumbled drunkenly out of a room.
Luthien’s smile quickly disintegrated; the painted and perfumed woman reminded him much of Lady Elenia, one of Viscount Aubrey’s entourage who had come to Dun Varna, his home on faraway Isle Bedwydrin. Those two ladies who had accompanied Aubrey, Elenia and Avonese, had started it all; their bickering had precipitated the death of Garth Rogar, Luthien’s boyhood friend.
Luthien stood the woman up and firmly straightened her, though she immediately slumped once more.
“Ooh, so strong,” she slurred. She ran her fingers down one of Luthien’s muscled arms, her eyes filled with lust.
“Strong and available,” Oliver promised, figuring out the potential trouble here. He stepped in between the two. “But first, my strong friend and I must speak with the duke.” The halfling looked around helplessly. “But we cannot find the man!”
The woman seemed not to notice Oliver as he rambled along. She reached right over his head to again stroke Luthien’s arm, not fathoming the dangerous glare the young Bedwyr was now giving her.
“Yes, yes,” Oliver said, pulling her arm away, pulling it hard to bend her over so that she had to look at him. “You might rub all of his strong body, but only after we have met with the duke. Do you know where he is?”
“Oh, Parry went away a long time ago,” she said, drawing frowns from the companions. A million questions raced through Luthien’s mind. Where might Paragor have gone? And where, then, was Katerin?
“To his bedchamber,” the lady added, and Luthien nearly sighed aloud with relief. Paragor was indeed in the palace!
The lady bent low to whisper, “They say he has a lady there.”
Oliver considered her jealous tones and, understanding the protective, even incestuous, ways of a noble’s court, the halfling was not surprised by what was forthcoming.
“A foreigner,” the lady added with utter contempt.
“We must find him then, before . . . before . . .” The halfling searched for a delicate way to phrase things. “Before,” he said simply, with finality, adding a wink to show what he meant.
“Somewhere that way,” the lady replied, waggling a finger along the corridor, in the same direction the companions had already been traveling.
Oliver smiled and tipped his hat, then turned the woman about and shoved her back into the room from whence she came.
“These people disgust me,” Luthien remarked as the pair started off once more.
“Of course,” Oliver outwardly agreed, but the halfling remembered a time not so long ago when he, too, had played these noble party games, usually lending a sympathetic shoulder for those ladies who had not snared the richest or the most powerful or the most dashing (though Oliver always considered himself the most dashing). Of course they were disgusting, as Luthien had said, their passions misplaced and shallow. Few of the nobles of Gascony, and of Avon, too, from what the halfling was now seeing, did anything more substantial than organize their drunken parties, with the richest foods and dozens of young painted ladies. These frequent occasions were orgies of lust and greed and gluttony.
But, in Oliver’s thinking, that could be fun.
The pair grew more cautious as they continued toward the center of the palace, for they found fewer partygoers and more cyclopians, particularly Praetorian Guards. The music dimmed, as did the lighting, and finally, Luthien decided that they should drop the façade and hide under the protection of the magic cape.
“But how are we to find information to lead us to the man?” Oliver protested.
It was a good point, for they still had no idea of which room might be Duke Paragor’s, and no idea if this “foreigner” the lady had spoken of was even Katerin. But Luthien did not change his mind. “Too many cyclopians,” he said. “And we are increasingly out of place, even if we were invited guests to the palace.”
Oliver shrugged and hid under the cape; Luthien moved to the side of the corridor, inching from shadow to shadow. A short while later, they came to a stairwell, winding both up and down. Now they had a true dilemma, for they had no idea of which way to go. The fourth floor, or the second? Or should they remain on this level, for the corridor continued across the way?