As the understeward stared at her in shock, mouth gaping and face pale, she inspected her nails idly and told them, “Oh, yes; Halighon, be aware that I am best known as Pennae. And whereas Islif politely places herself at your service, I expect you to service me.”
In the silence that followed that serene observation, a doorjack snickered-and Understeward Halighon lost his last desperate hold on his temper, stormed to a bellpull beside the door, and tugged it so savagely that the cord tore and was left hanging by a few threads. “This-this is scandalous! ” he snarled.
“When the Purple Dragons storm in here,” Pennae murmured imperturbably, “be sure to introduce us properly. This personage of dainty carriage is Jhessail Silvertree, and this handsome but quiet priest of Tymora is Doust Sulwood. Two of our companions are absent, but should join us shortly: Semoor Wolftooth, a holy man of Lathander, and Florin Falconhand, who’s-”
A paneled section of wall burst open and a dozen bright-armored men streamed through the revealed opening into the room, swords drawn. They peered alertly in all directions, eyes stern and faces grim.
“Who sounded the danger-gong?” the foremost snapped, from behind a formidable mustache. “Where’s the peril?”
Pennae pointed languidly. “Behold the sounder of the gong and the only peril we face in this chamber, all in one man: Understeward-ah! Pray forgive me- Master Understeward-of-Chambers Halighon Amranthur.”
“I-ah-that is to say…” Halighon faltered, as the Purple Dragons strode nearer, giving him hard looks.
Then he gathered himself visibly, reddening in the process, and glared at Pennae. “How is it you know my name? And who are you-all of you, your two absent friends included? Just how did you get in here?”
Pennae smiled. “Answer the first: Fee-ah, pray pardon, Queen Filfaeril to you-told me. Answer the second: we are the Knights of Myth Drannor, royally chartered adventurers. Answer the third: Vangey-ah, forgive me again, I am unused to court protocol- Royal Magician Vangerdahast brought us here through that same secret door the loyal Purple Dragons have just employed, and bade us remain here until he brought Florin to us. Florin is meeting privately with Vangey, Laspeera, and Margaster elsewhere in this quaint pile. War wizard business, I’m given to understand.”
Master Understeward-of-Chambers Halighon Amranthur had slowly gone a dirty yellow hue, as of old bone, and was now trying to manage a hue as white as fresh linen.
The Purple Dragons gave him contemptuous glances, sheathed their swords pointedly, and exchanged rolled eyes with some of the doorjacks. At a curt nod from the Purple Dragon commander, the doorjacks departed the room.
That commander dispensed another pointed look that sent his own men filing back through the no-longer-so-secret door, and ere following them, turned to favor Halighon with a cold glare.
After the door closed softly behind them all, leaving the understeward alone with the Knights, Halighon regarded the four folk on the lounges with open loathing.
“Adventurers,” he hissed. “I hate adventurers.”
“I quite agree,” said an all-too-familiar voice from right behind him, sending the courtier up into the air with a little shriek of startlement. “However, it’s not politic to say so, out loud, when we can perhaps still get them to do something useful for us. Lesser Understeward Amranthur.”
Halighon Amranthur tried to sink right through the rich furs underfoot, but as they lay upon a solid stone floor and yielded not a fingerbreadth, he settled for toppling into a senseless heap.
Court Wizard of the Realm and Royal Magician of Cormyr Vangerdahast sighed, stepped over the unconscious courtier, and regarded the grinning Knights with what some might have described as a “jaundiced eye.”
“Can’t you lot keep out of trouble for less than a bell? Do you know how much it costs to train good servants?”
“Ah,” Pennae replied serenely, pointing at the huddled heap on the floor. “That must be why you haven’t gotten around to training him. ”
Behind Vangerdahast, one of the two grandly sinister war wizards who’d accompanied him into the room snorted with mirth.
Vangerdahast sighed again. Patiently.
“Your Florin will live,” he growled, “and his wits are his own. More than that, he seems to have as many as most folk need in life. Which is better than I can say for some of you.” He turned his head slowly, to give all four Knights a warning glare.
“You may enjoy royal favor, and a proper charter, but let me remind you that you do not command any license to thieve freely through every grand house and noble mansion in Suzail or Arabel or anywhere else in the realm. Nor is making foes of loyal servants of the Crown a wise road on through life, no matter how tiresome they may seem to you. Cormyr presents the appearance of a tolerant land, but believe you me, Cormyr has a way of dealing with irritants.”
“The war wizards and their master with his oh-so-subtle-threats?” Pennae asked archly. “Or were you speaking of some other way?”
The Royal Magician of Cormyr regarded her expressionlessly for a long moment, and then said flatly, “I managed to save Florin Falconhand. I could not save the Lady Narantha. Her father will not forgive that. And before you feel moved to shrug that away with more insolence, I bid you-all of you-remember three names: Martess Ilmra, Agannor Wildsilver, and Bey Freemantle. Three who are too dead to be Knights of Myth Drannor any longer.”
He turned away.
“Lord Vangerdahast?” Islif asked quietly, from behind him, rising from the lounges. “May we thank you for our Florin’s life?”
“You may.”
“Thank you,” Jhessail said fervently, standing up in turn.
“Aye, thanks,” Pennae added quickly, still lounging with her boots up. “Do all his bits still work?”
Making sure they could not see his smile, Vangerdahast sighed again. Loudly.
The boom of distant double doors being violently flung open brought the two casually lounging Highknights into stiff, impassive alertness. An instant was all they needed to assume formal stances, halberds crossed in front of the door into the royal study.
In the distance, a fast-striding figure turned a corner and began the long walk toward them, cloak swirling. It did not slow as it approached, but merely snarled, “Get out of the way!”
Lord Maniol Crownsilver was already in a towering rage. As the halberds moved not a fingerwidth, his eyes widened, his face reddened, and his lips drew back in a snarl ere he burst out, “Underlings, move! I demand audience with the king! As is the right of every noble-born Cormyrean!”
The Highknights might have been two statues, if statues could regard sputtering nobles with coldly withering contempt.
“ Obey, gods curse you!” Crownsilver roared. “How low has this fair land come, when insolence rules its very Palace drudges?”
Silence was the only reply they gave him, even when his howlings rose into curses commenting personally and quite specifically upon their ancestry, social habits, and thankfully armor-hidden physical attributes. They stood like statues when Crownsilver clawed at the hilt of his ornate court sword and then drew it on them.
“Must I hew you like tree trunks?” the lord ranted, swinging hard-and striking the metal-clad haft of a halberd with a ringing clang that numbed his arm right up to the shoulder, but moved the halberd not a whit, that he could see. “A little obedience is all I expect!”
He swung again as he spat, “And is that too much to expect, in the Cormyr of here and now?”
Another ringing clang and another, the halberds moving smoothly to catch and deflect his strongest blows.
Panting, the noble used his favorite trick: thrusting at one expressionless face and then swooping his blade down viciously at the flaring top edge of that guard’s codpiece-only to have the other guard do something blurringly fast with his own sword, that sent Crownsilver’s halberd back over his head to clang off the passage ceiling and clatter somewhere behind him.